Quality Time
by Kataoi
Summary: Contrary to what the campers and other agents joke about, Sasha Nein is not a robot. He merely lacks the social graces that come so easily to them, and is frankly not very interested in such activities. Why does he have to talk to people anyway? It's not like much good can come from it.
1. The Five Man Band

(With apologies to those who actually understand German beyond what they recall from high school.)

* * *

In the very least, summer camp provided some sort of quiet sanctuary. Being positioned up at Whispering Rock, surrounded by the quote-unquote "peaceful" sounds of nature, meant that there was at least a ten mile buffer between him and the rest of humanity – if one could qualify a small town of fifty as "humanity". That was also the reason the counselors and one of the Crullers were well-versed in first aid, and the unfortunately frequent scraps with bears (not _mauling_ frequent but _smacked around by a telekinetic claw_ frequent) had to be dealt with right then and there. Actual medical help was a good fifty miles away at least.

Yeah, being in the boonies may not have been good for those in dire need of a doctor, but the isolation was good for the campers when it came to why they were there in the first place: training their abilities. And he would gladly learn first aid in a trade-off for lab space, test subjects, and quality "alone" time.

The joke was on him, as being alone always meant there was somebody nearby. That was simply how camp worked. There was about a week between when he got there and when the campers arrived, and between the move-ins and introductions and opening day speeches – not to mention the, you know, _teachings_ - that week could not last long enough.

Sasha Nein found himself at the end of another all-nighter, a skill that seemed a specialty that he was not too happy with. But he had managed to land a deal on the newest model of brian tumblers, so putting it together was simply a must. Ten hours and one broken coffee mug later, the psychic decided to avoid cleaning more ceramics from his lab and opted to get some...what was it..."fresh air".

With the campers' arrival still two days away, leaving by means of the GPC and not caring who saw him was a viable option. Sasha popped open the hatch atop the ladder and levitated himself up and out, resting momentarily to root around his pockets for a cigarette. ...Nope. Clean out. Seemed like a run into town was in order for that day.

Sunrise over Whispering Rock was probably considered some sort of pleasant sight, but for right now, the light only served to remind Sasha why sunglasses were a good accessory no matter what time of day (his prescription not withstanding). It also reminded him why people slept, and why he wasn't too fond of his all-nighter abilities: he could coast through the night, but once exposed to the day, his body began to wither and crumple.

That was nothing a trip to the lodge couldn't fix. Devoid of his cigarettes, it was time to fuel his next addiction, coffee. That one at least wasn't meant with grousing from his co-workers, who liked to rib him every so often on his health. Built like a beanpole, master of insomnia, and wielder of nicotine lungs? "You're the perfect agent, Nein" they would deadpan.

There was the long way and the short way to the lodge; Sasha chose the obvious answer as he skimmed over the top of the log that crossed the river and floated up the hill, ducking his head underneath the archway covered in peeling paint. Levitation was not his strongest suit, and he was only utilizing it to practice and get his partner off his back.

That was completely, totally, and utterly why. It was just to get her to stop prodding him about it, and maybe wanting to prove himself. There was no way he was going to impress her – her, the best levitator the Psychonauts had. His insistence that the feat no longer included visible psynergy did not do the trick.

The sound of chattering voices from the lodge should've tipped Sasha off, and should've told him to turn right around. But with his mind in a haze, he only seemed to passively notice. The word "c_ompany_" registered in his head, and that sent him off on a thought train: Why anyone would trek out to the camp? He once speculated it was purely to annoy him, and then the previously mentioned levitator had told him to "check his ego".

"Ah! Sasha darling, good morning."

It was like the blinding sunlight carried to the inside, except it went from natural to tacky artificial. Grouped around a table near the grill was not only his partner, the mental minx Milla Vodello, but five other agents he was able to quickly recall to memory due to their habit of leaving certain...impressions.

"Good morning," Sasha replied stoically, directing the greeting to Milla, and only Milla. The less contact with the others, the better.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Nein!" one of the agents shouted enthusiastically, lifting a travel thermos to the air. "Wie geht es dir?"

Sasha ground his feet to a halt and etched the frown deeper into his face. He fully understood his current attitude was more blamed on his lack of sleep rather than the agents' actual presence, and truth be told, he always felt just a _smidge_ of happiness at someone speaking his native language, but today he was just not having it.

"Is there a reason for your party's visit?" he asked, his movement returning so as to avoid being in the spotlight.

"Roadtrip," another of the agents replied, scooping a particularly long bang behind her ear. "We're due in San Antonio tonight. Got called last night after finishing up a case in Butte."

"We call it Butte, not Butt, Montana..." a third agent chimed, causing his comrades to snicker. Sasha rolled his eyes, though glad his back was currently facing the group.

"And this was on the way," a fourth agent continued. "A friendly place? Free food?" He listed the items with gusto, stabbing a sausage patty on the last word. "It was an excellent idea."

Yes, he quite indeed remembered this cluster of agents. They were (obviously) below him in rank but known quite well in the region, as they operated on what they called "the five man band principle". At least he and Milla kept it simple – partners, two people, opposite in their ways, complementing each other in skills and weaknesses. Them? Too intricate, too many parts, too many points of failure for his liking. But, they did their jobs and got their work done with surprising efficiency, given their less-than-serious personages.

Milla, of course, was having a grandiose time chatting to the group. She was graced with "social skills" and he wasn't, as evidenced by his sipping coffee while leaning against the grill counter. He could hear her lecturing him now.

_'_Sasha darling, why don't you loosen up and chat a little?' she would chide. 'Because I am wasting time and air with these people,' he would answer. Then she'd go 'You need to give to get. A dance is only fun if another dances along.'

Always with the dance analogies.

_'You have my voice pitched much too low, darling,'_ her very-real voice suddenly invaded into his thoughts. Sasha scowled into his coffee.

_Private place, Milla._

_'I'm not so sure; the lock was too easy to pick for you to want to be alone.'_

If there was a problem to having a partner, it was that as time wore on and their psyches got more in sync, the easier it was for her to sneak into his mind – and, admittedly, him into hers – and go unnoticed. Every so often, astral-Milla would find a little switch in his cube and turn up another embarrassing thought or memory or tangled mess of a cobweb and she would giggle, and by that point all hope was lost and she'd have another thing to tease him about. This month's go-around was the recollection of a stray cat he had named Mondschein.

It was unfortunate that there was literally nothing he could turn up to exact revenge. Everything he could say crossed the line of human decency – and he knew it all anyway.

_'Were you up all night again?'_

He took another sip of coffee before answering. _Perhaps._

Milla kept the pleasant smile on her face as the group of agents cracked a quick series of jokes. _'Ack! You can't be doing that to yourself. You'll wither to a husk! Show over, baby!'_

_You don't have to worry, Agent Vodello._ There, the surname attack. That tended to shut things down. He peered over the rim of his mug, only to see her continuing to smile and join in the group's conversings.

Yes, good, he was sa-

_'I have to worry about you, darling, you don't worry about yourself. It's a good thing I'm your partner, no?'_

He lifted the mug to hide his frown. There was something about being miffed at Milla that he didn't like her to see. _I believe you can save the worry for when it is actually required. There is little need to concern yourself with my well-being while we're here._

Then he paused, and he let his thoughts run – the other thoughts, the stream that nobody but himself could get to, not even if somebody else were to try. They were just too fast, too free-flowing, too deeply rooted to be heard by anyone but himself. And this was not exclusive to him, or an agent, or a psychic in general – it was just a human thing.

Sasha let the thoughts run, and in the midst of it all, he felt that perhaps his (mental) words were a bit harsh. Milla took everything in stride, and had very clearly been able to deal with him for several years now. But as time wore on, the differences between the two became abundantly clear, and it was almost to the point where he could see the traits in her that he not only lacked, but envied. That previously mentioned "social grace"? Definitely one of them. He wasn't _horrific_ with social functions, but even Oleander was leagues better than him. That stung a bit.

"Agent Vodello," he said aloud, catching the entire crowd's attention. "I am in need of cigarettes. Would you care to join me on a trip into town?"

"Oh darling, I wish you would take that as a sign to stop." Milla waggled her finger, tsking. "You will never be able to keep with the grove at this rate."

He was able to sum up the energy and emotion to shrug. "We all have our vices."

"Tor!" the first agent of the group commended, again lifting her travel thermos. "Ich wolle mehr Kaffee." She sipped from the thermos before revealing an elaborated translation: "I'm going to nab more coffee before we leave." Then she made eye contact with Sasha and grinned thinly. "Unsitte, aye Herr Nein?"

The words just made him frown again, but this time directly to the agent's face. But nothing phased her – nothing phased any of the five, and that was part of their reputation; they were just too damn happy – and she chuckled, returning her sight to her tray now devoid of food.

"Leaving? So soon?" Milla finally changed her expression to one of...slight sadness? Even when she _was_ upset she wasn't frowning, just sort of smiling less. "It's been so nice to see you again, and let me tell you, it is always fabulous to get visitors out here." She shook her head, sighing. "I love the children darlings, you know I do, and I would not give up this job for the _world_, but it can be so lonely out here!"

"Aw, but c'mon." The second agent nudged Milla's knee, as it was the closest thing to her. "You have Nein and Oleander – that's worth something, right?"

"And you have..." The third agent dropped his voice to a whisper, "Cruller's still around, isn't he?"

"You guys realize who you just suggested, right?" The up-until-then quiet fifth agent had his hand raised halfway in the air. "You're talking about Cruller, Oleander, and N – and yeah."

Sasha stopped mid-gulp of his coffee. Yeah, these agents where quite on the annoying side, and he was suddenly remembering very specific details of _why_. They were happy and full of energy, but not the Milla-kind, which was warm and inviting. It was the...the _their_ kind, the kind of enthusiasm that made others feel left out, like they weren't in on the joke.

Milla, however, just laughed. "Ford is still around, no need to be worried. And you know - 'One means somebody's lonely, company means there are two. Three means a crowd, four means more than a few. Five means to take a quick little break and get back to work when we're through'. You ever hear that song, darling?"

"Oooh, ooh!" The first agent drummed her hands on the table excitedly. "Got it! It's in the car! Putting it on as the first song of post-breakfast!" The rest groaned.

"Company," Milla continued, "it's so wonderful. It's the song you hear on the radio that fills you up and gets you grooving – and it's sad when it's over because you can't remember the name of the tune."

The group nodded, a tinge of sadness settling over them. Sasha, meanwhile, busied himself with procuring another cup of coffee, telekinetically tugging at the coffee pot set up on the grill counter for the week before camp.

Social graces. That was something that could be worked on right now. Pot in psychic-hand – after filling his own, of course – the German psychic turned to the group and raised it slightly. "Coffee?"

If scenes could be labeled with arbitrary emotions, this one would've been 'stunned silence'. Even Milla raised her eyebrows, though her shaking torso indicated she was silently giggling. Sasha felt a rush of blood color his face of embarrassment (so ha! he wasn't a robot, take that...cadets who had said such things). And then, he felt it; he felt astral-Milla's nimble lithe fingers clawing at his door, but the lock had been refitted with tighter enforcements and he wasn't going to let her sit in on his little tumble into the ever-continual saga of "Nein's awkwardness".

"Um...yeah sure, I'd like more coffee." The first agent had her thermos lifted in the air, but the response seemed rather mechanical in nature – perhaps 'terrified' was the proper word to describe it. Sasha levitated the pot over to her and carefully tilted it to pour into the thermos. The fifth agent then also raised his hand, and Sasha repeated the action...though he was awfully tempted to let it overflow to get back at the punk's earlier remark.

"Thanks," the fifth mumbled, while the first grinned exuberantly and motored out, "Danke fur den Kaffee, Herr Nein. Viel geschätzt." She tapped the thermos to her goggle-covered forehead and smirked, to which he scoffed and set the pot back in its spot. He didn't need this patronizing act.

"Welp...that was good, but we should probably get going." The fourth agent glanced around the table, the rest of his cohorts nodding. The five then clambered up from their spots, speaking a unified message of thanks to Milla for giving them food. She smiled widely.

"Anytime, darlings. You should visit when the children are here, don't you think so Sasha?"

"That would probably give them the wrong impression," he replied, barely thinking of the response. So much for social grace.

"What, that agents oftentimes work in groups of five?" The third agent seemed to roll with the punch, but the second scowled and turned her attention to Milla.

"That'd be fun, we're just usually _busy_," she said through clenched teeth. "A-and isn't it usually a budget thing? HQ doesn't want to have to pay for more agents than they have to and what-not."

"That explains Oleander," cracked the first, everyone but the second snickering.

"Now now, Morry is very good at what he does." Milla took on a air of motherly disappointment, once again wagging her finger. "They wouldn't put anyone here who didn't need to be here. The children are the future, after all – they need teachers of the highest quality."

No words were spoken, but after a brief silence, the five started laughing to themselves.

_They're talking about me._

_'Darling, what did I say about checking your ego?'_

_Agent Vodello, they have been making jokes at my expense while I've been here, they are CLEARLY -_

_'Sasha, sweetie, please. This is how they are, let them enjoy themselves.'_

Another silence. The five agents stiffened before letting out a unified sigh and turning to face the German agent. He himself froze when they lowered their heads.

"Sorry Agent Sasha Nein," they said in unison. Lifting their heads up, they then threw up their hands in salute. "We shouldn't mock a superior."

They held the pose for a lingering moment before the first mumbled, "But then again, there is Oleander..."

And then the unified moment of respect was gone, given way to more immature snickering.

* * *

Sasha didn't quite feel like bidding the group adieu, but Milla did, and because of that, he was dragged to the parking lot to see "the five man band" off. Their mode of transport was a VW bus, scratched and dinged up like one would expect someone of the group's ages to drive. The first agent hopped in the driver's seat, the second taking passenger, while the other three opened the side to reveal a mess of blankets and pillows within.

"Agency likes to penny-pinch, after all," explained the third to Milla's rather concerned look. "The trade-off for the five of us being a group is no hotels."

"How do you...No. Nevermind." Sasha didn't feel like asking how they bathed. They weren't reeking noxious odor, and that was all that mattered. ..._Blegh_.

"I ah...just...concerned for your safety, darlings," Milla said, peeking around inside the van. "No seats? No seat_belts_?"

"Hey, we _are_ Psychonauts," the fourth insisted. "We have plenty of ways to protect us and besides – Agent Vodello, aren't you a levitator? _The_ levitator?" He smirked, smugness breaching his expression. "Sounds a touch dangerous."

That somehow made the bile rise in Sasha's throat. He glared at the agent, though ultimately knew it didn't matter if no one was looking at him. And once he realized the futileness and ultimate in-consequence of the situation, the emotion was gone. Something slapped him in the brain and the anger subsided.

Milla, though, handled the remark with her usual grace. "I'm a professional, you know." She was suddenly sitting, her legs crossed and hovering, her arms spread to invite critique. "Of course it is not without its hazards -"

"But you would not know her as '_the _levitator' if she wasn't the definitive article of such."

The comment surprised everyone, but most of it, it surprised its speaker. It took Sasha a moment to realize that yes, he had said those words, that he had come to Milla's defense – Milla, who liked to show off but not intentionally, it was just because that was what she _did_. He wasn't sure why, just that it felt like the...right thing to do.

"There's more dangerous stuff here anyway," the first agent cut in, tapping the steering wheel. "You know of the bears, right?"

"The telekinetic ones?!" the fifth scrambled out, leaping up to his knees and clinging to the back of the passenger seat. "Those _are_ real?!"

"Quite," Sasha answered. "Most incidents that occur here and not due to flagrant mis-use of powers, but telekinetic mauling from the bears."

"Man, if only Whispering Rock had been a camp when we were recruits..."

"You _want_ to get mauled by a telekinetic bear?"

"Well I mean, it'd make for a good _story_, right?"

The five once again began their banter, leaving the two higher agents out of the joke. Milla dropped to her feet and shook her head, still smiling, while Sasha patted his pockets and once again recalled his need for cigarettes. He sighed.

"Perhaps you should be leaving," he said aloud, lightly kicking the side of the van. "San Antonio is a distance."

"- the blender made a mess of things. Ah – yeah, totes, we should." The first agent started up the van, the second closed her door, and the fourth and fifth clambered in the back, the third sliding it shut. "Auf Wiedersehen Herr Nein, Frau Vodello."

And they were off.

"...I need more coffee," Sasha mumbled, feeling his energy drop as the van skidded away. Milla giggled, floating backwards (she was so seamless in her movements, what the heck) to face him as he began his trek back to the lodge.

"That was very kind of you," she said. He hunched his shoulders to avoid frowning.

"Very trying of my patience, Agent Vodello."

"But they were a lovely break-up of the usual sameness of this camp, don't you think so?"

"Are the coffee grounds behind the counter?" Sasha interjected, deciding a topic change was in order. "Cruller didn't hide them again, I hope."

"Yes darling, they are where they're supposed to be."

Well, that was one vice – one Unsitte – taken care of. His second would be fulfilled later, though perhaps his craving for it would be dulled by the first. Regardless, he would be procuring the second in due time, maybe even with help from his third -

Wait, what? Third vice?_ Was ist mein dritter Unsitte? Kaffee, Zigaretten, das ist es. Eins, zwei, zwei Unsitte. Nicht drei._

"Sasha darling, are you alright?"

He looked up at the voice, its owner standing in the doorway of the lodge, a mix between confusion, worry, and...amusement? on her face.

_Dritter...Unsitte..._

"Yes," he answered curtly, stopping the blood rushing to his face. "I just need some more coffee."


	2. The Young Psychic

Much as he was intrigued by the young psychic, he also couldn't help feeling annoyed. It was like this: Razputin had broken into the camp. That was annoying. Now he was cruising through psychic courses meant to be a challenge. That was intriguing. But what made the boy so skilled, so talented...so enthusiastic?

"Agent Nein!"

Oh, he was back already. It had been a decent amount of time since he'd left, but it didn't feel long enough. Quiet time at camp never felt long enough.

"Ah, Razputin, you're back." Sasha didn't bother looking up from his desk, busying himself with research papers that probably needed to be put in a proper place one of these days. The stark neutrality of his work was suddenly invaded by an encroaching warm color palette, the area tinged in orange.

Raz had decided to continue practicing his levitation, pedaling around on the spherical psynergy while running a circuit of the floorspace. Sasha raised an eyebrow, and it was like the young psychic could sense an emotion was being passed because he immediately spoke up.

"It's like you said – Agent Vodello really is the best levitator the Psychonauts has!"

"I said she was _one of_ the experts in the field that we just so happened to have here on staff," Sasha grumbled in response. It wasn't intended as a groused answer, but when clarification was involved, his voice just seemed to dip naturally that way.

"She's also really nice," Raz continued, practicing a leap over a lower section of stairs. "Everyone at her training was so relaxed and having so much fun."

"That is who she is," Sasha replied, tapping a pen to his forehead in thought.

"She was so encouraging."

"Mhm."

"And inviting."

"Mmm."

"And entertaining!"

"Hm."

"And – I don't know if she does this for everyone, or maybe she just likes me, but she gave me a kiss on the cheek for finishing her training – egh!" Raz wiped his face with his sleeve, the action noticed by Sasha, who was peering up over the rims of his glasses. "Did she think she was my mom or something?"

"Agent Vodello certainly has a strong nurturing instinct," the older psychic said, now leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He wondered if Raz...knew of the incident...But he didn't want to bring up the event if he hadn't.

Yet something tipped off the circus runaway, who had stopped bouncing and stood halfway across the room, levitating. "Is she...is she a mom?" Raz spoke the words rather carefully, his head nudging forward to maybe-suggest-but-not-too-strongly-imply something...unspoken.

"No." The answer was terse and flat – unemotional at best.

"Well it's more like..." Raz's feet twitched back and forth, his levitation sphere spinning forward and back. If a normal person's body movements could give away thoughts to an astute observer, than the psychic-in-training was making quite the easy target for interpretation. "It's...I...saw...something. When I was in her head."

This was not quite a secret. Several campers before had made quick whispering mentions of the dark room in the mental minx's mind. The careful ones, the ones who explored and observed, were always the last ones to leave but also the ones to find all the important details. They were the ones with the best chances of becoming actual Psychonauts.

Not receiving a response, Raz continued. "It was...really...sad." That was an understatement. "And she knew I was there and told me to leave, but she didn't seem angry, she just...she didn't..."

"Agent Vodello is one who is quite fond of you children," Sasha intervened, telekinetically lifting his coffee mug while speaking. "That room is a place that she makes accessible for you to find, but only to those who are meticulously searching hard enough _to_ find it." He sipped from the mug, flinching at how cold the drink inside had become. "And it's to show you control."

"Control?" Raz looked up, continuing to pedal on the levitation orb. "But wasn't that...your thing? I mean – how much more controlled can it get?"

Yes, he knew, he was aware, he was _very_ aware, that his cube mind was about the most controlled thing that could ever hope to exist. Sasha rolled his eyes, choosing to take the remark as one from a confused child and not a sarcastic agent. "There are different _kinds_ of control, Razputin. It is all based upon who we, as people, are. It's also why everyone's mind is different. We all live and cope in different ways."

"And she...Agent Vodello, she has..."

"Yes...?" The other agents could call him a robot all they wanted – Sasha at least knew the art of how to coax a person along. Children were easiest; it was merely a matter of convincing them that you were on their side. It was perhaps why dealing with campers wasn't as difficult as dealing with co-workers, and indeed, Milla was always very insistent on his teaching abilities. Yes..."teaching." Hence why he didn't actually "teach" a "class", more like "poked around for the promising psychics".

"In that room, she has these...nightmares. And they're hissing and saying things and...they're behind these chains; they're locked up and I was just...I wondered how anyone could put up with that, and then I thought, 'how can she be so happy with all this going on', and _then_ I thought -"

"Milla has everything under control." Uh-oh, he slipped and used the first name. He was really good at not using the first name when around campers, he didn't like how unprofessional it sounded. But it was just the sheer motor-mouthed panic that was coming from the boy, his speech increasing in speed the more he strung his theory together. Sasha's social graces had kicked in, if just to get the boy to calm down and shut up. "It is true that she has suffered a great loss, but she would not be allowing young psychics-in-training into her mind if she didn't have complete control over her thoughts and personal demons."

Raz suddenly dropped to the ground, folding his arms across his chest and snorting. "Of course she does! She's Milla Vodello, the Mental Minx!" He seemed to be backtracking, attempting to rebuild the temporarily-fallen image of one of his psychic heroes. "True Psychic Tales wouldn't lie, they wouldn't put her in a lead story unless she was top-notch!"

Sasha casually glanced over at a box shoved in the corner of his lab. It had _Quatsch_ scrawled on the side in chisel-tip marker, and was filled with dozens of copies of the very comic Raz was rambling about. To put it lightly, he wasn't a huge fan of said comics, but seemed to have a hard time getting rid of them. Well, them and the other mounds of boxes and papers that littered the lab. They gave the recruits such strange expectations of camp, and were starting to influence how actual agents perceived their jobs. The _good_ stories, the interesting ones; they were the ones that often got tapped for "creative interpretation" and then published. Echte Psychische Märchen – errr, True Psychic Tales – was, at best, abstractly related to what actually happened.

He assumed.

Because he never read them.

But the campers sure talked about them. If it wasn't bad enough that the daughter of the grand master was so into them – it _had_ to be a family thing, the Zanotto lineage was just kind of strange that way – then it was certainly how widespread their influence had become. Now all the new recruits had stars in their eyes about how "exciting" being an agent could be.

What they didn't know was that being an agent _usually _entailed a lot of paperwork. Sasha glanced back at the surface of his desk, which had a neat stack of papers he was _still_ going through. Anyone who viewed his job of counseling at the summer camp as "away time" certainly had never done it before.

"- so that left me wondering, Agent Nein -"

"Hm?" He seemed to be getting better at dropping out of conversations and slipping back for the important parts.

Raz was once again atop his levitation orb, pedaling in short strokes back and forth across the floor. "In issue 227 of True Psychic Tales, you and Agent Vodello -"

Oh good, another of _these_ story-questions...

"- were in Budapest, and Agent Vodello says the only way through the market undetected would be to go in disguise, but I always thought couldn't be true, that you could've just gone invisible despite the fact that the czar's pet monkey was there because – anything in the field should turn invisible as well, and -"

"Razputin, you are aware that those stories are made into more interesting tales than what actually happened, correct?"

The thought seemed to have apparently never crossed the boy's mind, if judging by the backwards reeling he did. "W-well I...I figured they maybe spruced things up or glossed over more secret or boring details but...they're not...made up...right...?"

..._Ugh_ it was hard to look at the young psychic's face. His eyes were large, brow low, almost on the edge of quivering in tears. _Really? _He should've known that the comics weren't completely – or even mostly – true. And maybe shaking that disillusionment was for the best but...

_Social graces_...No matter how talented the boy, he was still ten years old. He had perhaps built his idols out of slightly skewed beliefs and interpretations of them, but they were still _his idols_. Sasha didn't need to use clairvoyance on the boy (he couldn't, given Psychonaut code concerning youths and all) to understand that Raz, with all his heart, really did view the counselors as...heroes.

"Just that...some things are made...more exciting for the comics." Sasha cleared his throat, his brain scrambling to improv half-lies. "Echte – er – _True_ Psychic Tales only gets to call itself that because it is somewhat based on real-life events." He paused, figuring how to wrap a neat ending onto the statement. "Real people are much more interesting than their fictional counterparts could ever be." There. That line even had a nice ring to it, almost like it was part of some inspirational speech.

Despite some rumors, Sasha wasn't fond of being a "killyjoy". It was just that reality did have to shake Raz down; it had to remind him that the people he idolized were indeed very human and had their flaws. The older psychic was just momentarily relieved he was not going to be responsible yet again for "crushing" some child's dream. Milla liked to chide him on that too often.

"Well – that makes sense, then!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah I mean – you and Agent Vodello are kinda different from the comics."

"I would hope we are more dimensional than drawings," Sasha muttered, shooting a localized pyrokinesis bolt into his previously cold (and somewhat forgotten) coffee.

"But it can't be _too_ different, right? I mean, you guys are partners in real life too."

"Correct." He telekinetically lifted the now-steaming mug to take another go at the drink.

"And the writer is good, he seems to have your personalities down pretty well."

"That's comforting." He really didn't care if the remark sounded sincere or not.

"So – okay yeah. Yeah, that makes sense."

Sasha stopped mid-sip from his cup. He didn't like asking questions that repeated the previous sentence, but..."What makes sense?"

"Huh?" Raz had apparently been staring at the ground while coming to terms with the real world and the "True" Psychic Tales world. "Oh it's – just. You know. I mean, I guess if it is, then the agency knows, so there's not a rule against it or anything."

No. No, he was not going to ask the inevitable. He was not going to – _Was sagt er?_ - no!

So he just stared over the rim of the mug instead.

"I – I mean – what – what you and Agent Vodello do in your private time is none of my business, a-and I -"

_Quatsch_. Perhaps that box's contents would have to be actually looked over. And maybe he should've been reading the waivers for the comics before signing off on them.

* * *

"Agent Vodello."

"Oh, hello darling. It is so wonderful for you to visit – did you want to sit in on a lesson?"

"No. ...No, thank you. I have a question."

"Yes?"

"Are you aware of the...nonsense that gets published in those True Psychic Tales comics?"

_Tsk tsk_. "Oh Sasha, you should know that they embellish all the stories and take out the boring parts. They need to make them ebb and flow; they can't be weighed down by the slow bits."

"No – no, I was aware of those, I meant more – are you aware that they perhaps 'embellish' too much?"

"From what I know, they take my stories into account very faithfully – they just have to edit a bit. The Budapest one – that's a good story, don't you think?"

"...You and I remember Budapest very differently."

Milla opened one of her eyes partway, smiling cheekily. "But not too differently, I hope."


	3. The Grand Master's Daughter

It was very easy to understand why she didn't want to be attached to labels. He didn't like being "the cobbler's son", and so it stood to reason that she didn't want to be known as "the grand Psychonaut master's daughter". It was partly due to the unwanted attention, partly to do with not wanting an easy way out, but perhaps mostly due to wanting to be one's own self.

So it may have seemed slightly unusual that she hung around headquarters an awful lot, but that came with the duality of the girl. She was indeed passionate about her psychic training, though at the same time, cooled off on the topic when someone inquired about it. She was concerned about others but didn't like to show it, and while she certainly cared for her father, she didn't like to be around him at work.

Which was how the Lili Corner came to be in his office.

When not at summer camp, Sasha Nein had an actual office, with an actual desk and chair and filing cabinet; a compact little computer meant for file browsing and not much more, a few pens and pencils, perhaps a notepad to jot things down, and a calendar on the wall that featured Bauhaus art. It had been one of Milla's more stylish gifts to him.

He had to emphasize the 'actual', but it was purely on a sarcastic note – and somewhat untimely, given that his current task was looking over applications for said camp. Whispering Rock was one of those positions everyone claimed they wouldn't mind taking, but nobody wanted to actually go through and volunteer for it. Sasha was known as one of the "Rockers", and because of that, it seemed to cast a strange persona on those who hadn't known him before the camp opened. What were they expecting, a jungle man? The younger agents were ridiculous sometimes.

Lili was one of those who _didn't_ find it strange for him to have an office. She had been a regular in the headquarters since as soon as Truman gained clearance from the hospital (and his wife) – a proud father to his then-newborn baby girl. Sasha had been a...well, it was complicated. It didn't help that at the time, he spoke very little English, and having a high-ranking officer waltz around headquarters with an infant just added to the confusion.

"_Wer ist das_?" he remembered asking the cadet who was also serving as his guide. She smiled, her never-opening eyes reflecting the curve of her mouth.

"_Truman Zanotto – Nachfolger für der Großmeister des Psychonauts."_

"_Und...das...Baby...?"_

"_Sie ist seine Tochter. Heisst Lili, ich denke."_

So Sasha's first experience with the girl was when she had been a squirming bundle in Grand Master Zanotto's arms, except at that time he hadn't been Grand Master. Now Lili was – well, she wasn't a grown up, but ten years made quite a difference.

Actually, more like eleven years. He looked at the line on the camp application, realizing it was, by sheer and almost gross coincidence, Lili Zanotto's. Despite last summer's "incident", Whispering Rock was still chugging along as a psychic summer camp. All it took was implementing a few tests for the counselors and parents found themselves at-ease again. It helped that the kids who had been there – who _had their brains removed_ – were excited about coming back. Perhaps that issue of True Psychic Tales that was, ahem, _creatively adapted_, had a hand in that.

_Knock knock knock._

"Hey, Agent Nein?" asked a familiar, somewhat congested-sounding voice.

"Hereinkommen," he replied, but realized a few too many syllables had passed his tongue. "Er – come in."

The door swung open but shut very quickly, a pair of scampering feet accompanying it. Sasha didn't need to look up, counting the beats it took for the feet to reach their usual corner spot. _Zwei, drei, vier..._yeah, it was the littlest Zanotto. Lili skidded down to her knees and banged her shoulder into the side of his filing cabinet, nestling herself into the spot.

He heard a few pages flip – glossy pages, the noise was too smooth to be anything else – and then a slight sigh from her. Sasha curled in his lips and etched them towards his cheek, trying to decipher what kind of sigh it was. He had to be careful with Lili, and with women in general, and – who was he kidding, he had to be careful with people in general – no, wait, he had to be careful with _other living beings_, because they emitted subtle nuances that varied and lacked consistency. Perhaps most embarrassing was that he didn't quite "get" Milla, and he'd been her partner for how many years? Five or something? ...Maybe six? Seven...?

So Lili's sigh didn't earn any kind of reaction from Sasha. He returned his attention to the camp application, tapping a pen while reading the information he had read at least four times before. He wondered...perhaps she was getting bored of the camp. Did she feel it worth her time, or was she just going through the motions and attending every summer to please her father? Was it to set an example?

No, that couldn't be it. Lili was fiercely independent and wouldn't go out to the camp every summer just for the sake of her father's image. There had to be a reason she went, and if logic was dictating properly, then it was probably because she actually liked it.

Alternatively it was because it was something to do and she just went along with it.

Or maybe there _was_ some pressure involved, maybe her mother or something.

...No, Sasha was never going to fully understand how other people worked. It was a miracle he himself managed to exist, and seeing the bizarre minds of others just confirmed that nobody would ever be able to understand everyone.

Then Lili sighed again. Sasha raised an eyebrow, backtracking over the previous two minutes. There had been no additional noises, so what was she reading that was taking her so long? Or was this a cue? Were his social graces supposed to be kicking in?

Well, worst that could happen was that she'd go into her "ugh adults are so annoying' mode and then leave the corner, and subsequently, his office. That was okay. She did that on occasion, when he slipped up and managed to say something that was "annoying", because heaven forbid an adult try to dispense advice to a younger cohort.

"I see you applied for camp again," he said, hoping those were words that would start a not-hostile conversation.

"Yeah...guess I did."

Sasha wasn't sure where to go from there. He thumbed a corner of the application, reminding himself of just what paper felt like. Gloves had become almost as standard to his attire as his sunglasses, and mostly because he didn't feel like knowing what the cafeteria attendant had been grousing about before giving him his food. There were some trace emotions on this sheet of paper, but he was used to the Zanottos. It was to the point where the traces left behind were more like dull bumps than charged tingles.

"Agent Nein -" "Miss Zanotto -"

They still weren't looking at each other, but both fumbled out very quick "no you first"s. Then they paused, and let that pause turn into another pause, and that second linger a bit longer than intended, before Lili cleared her throat.

"Err...Agent Nein...?"

"Yes?"

Sometimes he wondered why she, of all people, referred to him as that. The 'Agent' title was a bit formal for a child he had known pretty much all her life. Then there was the fact that Milla was often referred to as 'Miss Milla', but him, never; never anything other than 'Agent' from the campers. A few of the older agents just sort of mumbled 'Nein' at him (that itself was confusing; he had to learn to never think anyone was speaking German at him, and that itself was another story all together), and some of the smartalecky ones liked to say 'Herr' – _ACK! Ein wenig Konsistenz_!

In short, it was frustrating. And why couldn't he be anything other than 'Agent'? Was he that authoritative? _All_ the time?

"- so I'm not really sure about it."

Uh-oh. He had drifted way too far out of the conversation, to the point where he wasn't even aware they were having one. Lili was waiting for his response, and all he could do was release a defeated, "Pardon?"

And _there_ was the sigh. The exhaled breath scratched in her throat, but there was no mistaken that as the tired and true "annoyed with this" sigh. A few more seconds would decide her next course of action...

"Were you not listening?"

So she was going with the sassy route today. Okay. So be it. C'mon social graces, now was not the time to fail: "I was not, sorry."

"What happened? I thought you always paid attention to stuff."

"Usually. I was...caught up in my thoughts."

"You do that?"

"More often than you'd think."

"Huh. ...What were you thinking about?"

"Titles," he replied without hesitation. Lili, he had discovered, was very good at getting him to talk. It wasn't interrogation, and it wasn't that she had stumbled into an awkward phase of controlling her telepathy. No, it was most likely a side effect of him having practiced his English on her ever since she was a baby. The best audience was one that wasn't going to mock him in return, and she, a squirming creature more intent on touching her toes while on her back, was perhaps the best kind. When she graduated to actual movement and wanted to climb on him instead, well, that was a different story.

The memories made him flush in embarrassment, almost making him nauseous in the process. He remembered his agent-guide describing the situation as "so cute it makes me want to vomit". Incidentally, that was also one of the first phrases he could recall learning in English.

"...Agent Nein?"

"Uh – yes?"

"I asked you why you were thinking about titles."

"You did?"

"Yeees." Lili certainly wasn't a flailing little baby anymore, and he sometimes missed the days when she couldn't backtalk him.

"I see. Well – merely the idea that ones holds different titles to different people. Like Agent Vodello, for instance."

This seemed to perk Lili up. "The Mental Minx!"

That phrase had been increasing in popularity lately. Sasha blamed it on True Psychic Tales' recent publication – he had taken to reading the blasted things, ever since the Budapest incident – and its insistence of relaying the latest narrative without using actual names. He wasn't too fond of being labeled "the Bauhaus Bowlcut", and was convinced the writer was shooting purely for alliteration without actually _thinking_ about the words used.

But he managed to push that aside. "Correct. She has her codename, her rank as an agent, her title, and then her general day-to-day personage. Different people will call her different things."

"Right. Sooo...why were you thinking about that?"

Now this was the part Lili wasn't good at. She wasn't his therapist (he didn't have one, so she certainly _wasn't_ his), but she tried to get him to talk more than he was willing to. He oftentimes chose to her ignore her obvious attempts at picking his brain – figuratively, thankfully, not literally. Points for trying, though.

"It came up."

"...Oh." Lili was clearly disappointed at the way the conversation had ended. She at least had the common sense to not try and test her luck prying at him, so she instead returned to whatever she had tried to tell him earlier: "I applied for camp again because it's what I've been doing, but ever since last summer, I'm not really sure about it."

So it _was_ for the sake of having something to do. Sasha finally decided to turn in his chair and look at the girl, kicking his foot up to his knee while she scrambled to adjust herself to sit and face him. "You would hardly be blamed for not wanting to return to camp. After all Miss Zanotto, you were caught up in the worst of it with Agent Vodello and I."

"It's – it's not that."

He paused, raising an eyebrow slowly while digesting the words. If she was going to completely ignore the fact that had been kidnapped, and held as the ultimate prize, then what could've _possibly_ been bothering her?

The eyebrow must've spoken for itself, as Lili took that as a cue to continue. "I mean, yeah, that was...you know." She didn't want to admit to fear. He could respect that, but at her age, it was difficult to determine if it was recklessness or bravery. "And then the whole thing of Dad being kidnapped, that wasn't fun either but that wasn't the camp's fault, and I'm not saying that if I had been at home I could've prevented it or anything. It has nothing to do with that."

"Okay." He had to admit, Lili was good at covering her bases, usually being one step ahead of others' thought processes.

"It's...well. It's Raz."

"Ah. Your...boyfriend." Could ten – pardon, eleven – could preteens really be dating? Was that a thing now? He had questioned this to Milla and she'd scolded him, so maybe the world had done some weird advancing while he stayed inside learning a new language, culture, and career path.

"Y-yeah."

"Is..." Oh no, was he really going to have to provide relationship counseling to an eleven-year-old? Sasha's social graces were already fighting to stay "graceful", and even if Lili _wanted_ such advice, he was probably the worst person to turn to -

"Oh! Oh, no, we're fine."

Phew. One bullet dodged.

"It's just that – well, he's a Psychonaut now. He's an actual agent and everything."

"Somewhat," Sasha corrected. "His promotion to agent was a decision made by Cruller. Your father chose to uphold the assessment, but Razputin has to make his way through the ranks like every other agent does."

"Hm. That would explain why I see him in the mail room the most."

"Indeed."

"But that doesn't change the fact that he's an _agent_, and that was his first time going to camp. I mean, I know his brain is 'one in a million', I said it, but it's...like..." She titled her head to the side, staring ashamedly at the carpeting of the office. "Am I just not...as good as him?"

Sasha bit his tongue to his immediate first response. He let it pass before opening his mouth to speak. "I wouldn't say it's that."

Lili frowned. "So what is it? It has to be that – don't lie to me, Sasha!"

He had to pause to recover from the whiplash of having someone other than Milla call him by his first name. "It _isn't that_, Miss Zanotto. You must understand that Razputin...he was..." Sasha rubbed the back of his neck, even with the knowledge that it was a dead giveaway of his thoughts. "It was the most unusual of circumstances."

"I...guess." Lili released a pent-up sigh before falling on her back, legs still crossed. "Eh...I don't want to be an agent yet." She rolled her head to look at the door. "I know my dad doesn't want me to be..."

"Grand Master Zanotto – your father -"

"I know who my 'father' is -"

"- he was not a fan of Razputin being promoted to agent at such a young age." Sasha lowered his previously neck-occupied hand, tapping his fingers on his kicked-up knee. "Your boyfriend was not the first, but the circumstance is unusual no matter the context."

Lili lifted her head up, her mouth squirmed into one of her cheeks, eyebrows drawn tight. "Then why'd he let Raz stay in?" This was clearly a scenario she hadn't been aware of before.

"The Grand Master has a trust in Cruller others don't, and in the end, he believed Razputin was fit for the task." He shrugged. "The idea for now is to keep the boy out of danger and have him be a mail room lackey for a few years, maybe call him when needed. The agency may be penny-pinchers, but they aren't completely heartless."

That somehow made Lili giggle. She dropped her head back to the ground and lolled it to the side facing her usual corner, spreading out her arms in the process. "Dad...I don't think he wants me to be a Psychonaut."

She may not have been his therapist, but Sasha oftentimes found himself being hers. This was probably also another side effect of having known her for so long. Once Lili had learned to not only walk, but speak, she had quickly found out which agents would talk to her and which ones wouldn't. Sasha had turned into a prime choice, with her running to his office with everything from "my favorite crayon broke" to "the boys at school pick on me so I punched them and I got in trouble". Maybe it was the fact that he usually didn't respond, just listened, and usually people just wanted to vent at someone. Sasha seemed to be Lili's "someone to throw words at" person.

It was, however, a little hard to empathize with her situation. In the back of his mind, Sasha knew his own father still cared for him – he, the cobbler's son, who hadn't seen his father for the better part of two decades. He wrote letters to maintain his "alive" status, but there was something about going back to Germany and seeing his father, the real man, in the actual flesh, that he just couldn't bring himself to do. Not...not yet.

But because of that, he could only abstractly think of how Truman must've felt towards his fledgling psychic daughter. She, the grand master's daughter, probably knew her father cared for her, and his intentions were to not stunt her growth but keep her safe while he still could. But he could only keep her safe for so long, and at this point in time, there were only seven years left until he could no longer restrict her.

"I don't think he is try to dissuade you from doing whatever it is you want to do, be it within the Psychonauts or not." Sasha settled his hand on his knee to avoid tapping his fingers. "I can only guess, but I would think Truman is merely looking out for you and to avoid pressuring you into a situation you may not want to be in."

"But I _want_ to be a Psychonaut!" Lili shot up from the floor, her palms smacking into the carpet in front of her. "I've wanted to be one even before Dad was the grand master!"

Sasha raised an eyebrow. "Really now."

"I figured, if I could do something even _half_ as exciting as what went on in True Psychic Tales, then why would I want to be something ordinary?"

He lifted his hand to counter, to point out that Echte Psychische Tales – Märchen – whatever – was hardly the best baseline for deciding one's life and future career path. But he was caught by the young girl's face, so full of determination and steadfastness that he wasn't really up to "crushing" her dreams. She knew the boring part of the job anyway. If by this point she had seen it all and still believed it a career worth pursuing, then, that was her resolve.

"So is that why you keep attending camp?"

Lili hesitated before nodding. "They won't let me in the academy yet, so camp's the next best thing."

"Even with your father being grand master?" If Milla had heard him make a joke right then, she probably would've started laughing in disbelief...

"I'm not going to use my dad to get into the academy!"

"I know. I was joking."

"...You're not good at it."

"I'm aware."

The young psychic snorted before picking up her fallen comic in her unofficial-official corner. Sasha recognized a panel on the side of the page he saw, and gritted his teeth. The Budapest issue was going to haunt him for a while.

"This one's my favorite," Lili said, eying him while folding the issue shut. "Well, maybe not my _favorite_. Top five for sure."

"Mmmhm." Sasha returned his feet to the ground, turning around to face his desk.

"Me and Raz were taking about it,"she continued, standing up and hopping the (short) distance to the door of the office, "and we were wondering – you and Miss Milla, how'd you get to be partners?"

Sasha didn't look up from his desk. "They don't tell you in the comics?"

"Nope. You guys were introduced straight-up as a partner duo; they haven't done an origin story yet."

"Probably because it isn't a very exciting story." He flipped Lili's application over and scrawled _genehmigt_ on the sheet. "We were assigned to the same case, it was discovered our abilities synced up, and that was that."

"Oh." Lili was clearly not convinced, and her voice carried with it an edge that suggested she could always try asking later. And, knowing her, she would.

"Perhaps you and Razputin can work something out and lend your story to the comic." If that meant getting people off his back, then he would by all means encourage it.

"...You said he's in the mailing room?"

"Should be, but given him..."

"Right, but it's someplace to start. Thanks Agent Nein – bye!"

She may not have liked to be labeled in a way that linked her to her father, but there was no doubt: Lili was like Truman, and very much a Zanotto.


	4. The Guide

A/N: I don't normally do these, but I'll address this now: This wasn't supposed to be what it became; it originally started as the ending-epilogue to the previous chapter. But, I don't plan anything, so it kind of grew into its own beast. I've been calling it an "intermission" rather than an actual intentional chapter. Anyhow, thanks for reading, and much love to the reviews. I feed on them in the darkest hours of the night, aka my writing time.

* * *

Babysitting sessions of Lili seemed to happen spontaneously, and one was indeed happening right now. Truman had appeared in a whirlwind – as he did – and transferred her to the German's arms, before zooming off elsewhere. The girl was barely past a year old but was already a burden on his admittedly weak body structure, giving him further motivation to "work on that". Because of this, he had taken to hanging out in the cafeteria when he randomly had her pawned off to him, since that way he could set her on a table.

"Hey, Sasha," his guide, not quite yet an agent, called out from the service line. He perked up.

"_Was_?"

"Any cream or sugar?"

He paused at the words, his mind still having to translate them first - _Sahne oder Zucker – _before he could answer. "Cream, _Bitte_."

The guide smiled but her ever-closed eyes were frowning. "_Auf Englisch_, Sasha. _Du musst lernen, alles auf Englisch sagen._"

The German sighed, but his guide grinned wider, leaving the line with two Styrofoam cups. Upon reaching the table, she handed one to him, taking a seat on the opposite side and extending a gloved finger to one of Lili's outstretched hands.

"Gosh she's cute," the guide murmured, her smile and eyes softening. Sasha scoffed into his coffee.

"A little," he mumbled, eying the baby with slight contempt. She was giggling and making various sounds, sometimes hitting words.

"Oh come on. I know you practice your English with her."

Sasha frowned, hunching his shoulders and sticking as much of his face into the cup as he could. "Why do you know that?"

"What's that? Couldn't hear you." His guide had the most maniacal grin on her face – far too much to be playing with a baby.

He ground his teeth together. "_Ich sagte_ – WHY DO YOU KNOW THAT."

"Woah woah, calm down there all star." She paused, realizing he probably didn't know what the last two words quite meant. "Anywho – I've seen you do it."

"...You have."

"Uh-huh. It's cute. So cute it makes me want to vomit."

He blinked. "_Erbrechen..._? Why..?"

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "It's just a phrase I use. You know like – it's so cute it makes me feel ill."

"...Oh. Okay..." They continued drinking their coffees in silence, a quiet interrupted by the industrial cooking equipment humming along in the kitchen, the scuffs and squeaks of people from outside in the halls, and Lili's gurgles.

"...You're kind of a killjoy, Sasha," his guide said, choosing to break the uncomfortable silence with more uncomfortableness. He tilted his head.

"Killing...happy?"

She bit her lip, a sudden blue glow forming a small hand to tap her forehead. "A uh..._Miesmacher, oder Spaßverderber_."

He furrowed his brow. "_Spaßverderber_? _Was_? _Mich_?"

She tsked. "In English."

"_Spaßverderber, auf Englisch, _killjoy?"

"Yeah."

"I am a killjoy?"

"_Manchmal._"

Sasha groaned. What use was it for her to tell him to speak in English if half the time she just defaulted to his native language anyway? The baby found his misery funny, though. That was a joy; misery did love company.

Hmph.

"Do you ever get to do anything outside of base?" his guide asked, again topic-jumping. He had known her for a year now, so the question came as somewhat of a surprise.

"A little."

"Like what?"

"Um...walking...and...sometimes Agent Cruller takes me to the cafe _auf der Straße_..."

"That's it?"

"There is not much for me," he replied, his voice dropping in volume with each word. "My place is here..."

"You don't have to stay _here_ all the time," his guide pressed. "You're not under quarantine anymore, you can – you can at least get a glimpse of this country." She leaned back in her seat, holding the Styrofoam cup to her lips. "You _wanted_ to come here, right?"

Sasha hesitated to reply, his focusing zeroing in on Lili's feet. "I wanted to come here because it was my last chance. America was where I thought I could live. If I could not make it here, then, I deserved whatever happened to me." He frowned, remembering just what _had_ occurred after sneaking into the country and...mucking around, to put it one way. A cold sweat overtook his temples, which brought his attention back to the guide across the table.

"Oh, you deserved what happened." An absolutely chilling but thin grin crossed onto his guide's face, and for once, he saw her eyes crack open – a narrow slit of white, clear blue irises peering out. "That ass-kicking you got? The one that made us find you? You deserved that."

Lili suddenly let out a cry. The guide's eyes grew wide, and the slight chill that had been resting on Sasha's forehead peeled off. His guide snapped her eyes shut, throwing her head down.

"_Entschuldigung_," she said into her cup. Sasha felt his heart decelerate before standing up to investigate Lili and her outburst – but the baby was fine, once again cooing and babbling. Her wandering eyes looked up at him and a smile came to her face.

"Gna-gna," she said. He felt the corners of his mouth tugging outward, but he put the kabosh on that, instead looking at his guide with confusion.

"Are you...okay...?" he asked cautiously. There was a pause before she nodded.

"Minor hiccup there," she answered, her voice attempting its usual cheer but her gaze still down. "Choleric was running high, didn't realize it..." she mumbled.

Sasha had a...vague idea what his guide's own mental hurdles were. It was extreme mood shifts, maybe even multiple personalities, and there were five distinct modes that he could recall brushing up with here and there. She had said she would "tell him the story someday", but after a year he had given up on that. For the most part, she was able to keep in check; it was just every so often a bolt would come loose and the control would be lost.

"But...it's...been a while, yes?" he asked in a desperate attempt to not lose his only speaking companion – even if she could be kind of annoying at times. His guide lifted her head, her eyebrows squirmed in thought.

"...Kinda. Four months."

"What was it last time?"

"Sanguine got the best of me and I had a bit of fun with fire." She paused. "You...were there."

"Oh. Uh. So...so I was."

That did illicit a chuckle from his guide, so perhaps he wouldn't be left alone. "It's okay. I've got things worked out – and Cruller's still there to help. How about you?"

"Me?" How did the topic switch back to him so quickly?

"How is your quest for control?"

Sasha bit his lip, once again finding Lili's feet very easy to stare at. "I have been able to leave here because I can control most of it, but..."

"Needs more fine-tuning."

"_Was?_"

"_Feinabstimmung_.Uh...you...need...a tighter grip on. You – ah! - you need to be able to have it totally under control, and to be able to summon it as you want." She eeked out a smile. "Because when you can do that you'll be happier with yourself, right?"

There was obviously some self-imparting to her words, but the feelings were mutual. He felt rather uncomfortable not knowing the full extent of his abilities, and even less so with knowing he didn't have them completely complying to his will. How his guide was able to cope with herself – living at the base yes, but leaving on a regular basis and interacting with others who didn't know her secrets – was mystifying.

Sasha hadn't felt "safe" in years. Long before being taken in by the Psychonauts, before jumping to America, before running away from home – he couldn't remember the last time he felt secure. His psychic abilities didn't help, but they didn't quite deter. They were just...confusing. And after being confusing, they changed into being...uncomfortable. Slowly, over time, and with much practice and patience, he had learned to use them as an extension of himself rather than an external force. It was, after all, mental power – internal.

But there was still a gap, still that far-off reach. He was currently useless to the Psychonauts, but too dangerous ("promising" was how it had been put to him, but he knew better) to be let out. True, he wasn't under quarantine anymore, but there just wasn't anyplace he wanted to go. Walks and cafe visits were the best for now.

"_Werden ich sein_?" he asked, not particularly caring at his choice of language. "Will it really be that much different?"

"If you want it to be." His guide lifted her cup to drink, but loured when realizing it was empty. "_Nicht versuchen, nicht kennen. _You just...have to make up your mind." She smirked slightly at the statement. "That's a pun, if you want it to be."

Keeping in a groan, Sasha instead tapped his Styrofoam cup against the table and released a tiny sigh. "I wish it was as easy as you make it sound."

"It _is_ as easy as I make it sound," she mimicked, pitching her voice lower just to irk him. "It's a difficult thing, but the _decision_ to go ahead and try is the easy part. It'll be harder when you keep failing, and it's going to be hardest when you can't think of a way out. But." She perched her head on the back of her hand, casting a smile towards him. "I'm pretty sure you can do it."

Sasha squirmed his mouth towards his cheek. "Are you saying that to make me feel better?"

"Kinda." His guide leaned back in her seat and grinned mischievously while he scowled. "But also 'cause I do believe in you. You'd make a kickass agent. You just gotta try harder."

Kickass...? No, he was not going to inquire about more phrases today. "And what of you? What do you plan to do?"

"Oh - I fully intend on being an agent as well, don't get me wrong." She tapped the side of her head. "Cruller says I'm almost there. But the board won't let me be one until I go at least a year without an incident, and even then that's no guarantee." Though her eyes weren't open, her gaze was downtrodden, and yet still staring very intently at him. "But, it's okay. I'm young and have a lot to learn. I can wait."

It was admirable for someone her age to not only admit a need for knowledge, but to also be content with it. Every so often, Sasha remembered she was younger than him – just a little bit, not much of an appreciable difference – but the way she carried herself and the confidence she weaved into her persona made her _feel_ like a mentor. He knew he needed to work on that, especially since she first referred to him as "looking like a kicked animal".

Tsh. And people said he lacked social tact.

Instead of speaking, Sasha just...nodded. It was slow, more accepting than agreeing, and turned his attention to the little Zanotto on the table. She reached her hands up into the air, wiggling around, and he unconsciously held a finger out for her to grab onto. Her grasp sent the tiniest little spark of emotion through his system – a bit hazy, hard to make out, but kind of...warm; and it felt like...orange. Whatever it was, he couldn't explain it.

"The blue egg," he murmured to her as she giggled. He remembered being stuck with her early one morning, so they sat in one of the lounges and watched some strange and gaudy children's show on TV. The episode had been on birds, and was filled with dancing puppets and singalongs. It was downright terrifying, but then again, he was German. It was sort of normal.

"Hey, Sasha – I've got an appointment in ten minutes, I gotta be going." His guide stood up while speaking, swiping his empty cup without hesitation and stacking it into hers. He looked up at her, simultaneously scooping Lili up with his free arm.

"_Mit wem_?"

"_Auf En_- "

"With who?" he rushed in to correct himself. She grinned.

"Not really sure – it was supposed to be Zanotto but he must be doing something else if he tossed his daughter onto you."

Sasha processed the words before frowning. "Does that mean you were only with me because you thought he would come back?"

She laughed, tapping him on the head with the cups. "Of course not; it's because I love spending time with you, _mein liebes Honigbär_."

"...Why do you call me those things," was all he could think to respond with. Lili seemed in on the joke and gurgled a chortle, which received a glare from him.

Yes, here he was, being teased by not only a fellow cadet, but a baby. How had he decided to deal with it? By _glaring at the baby_, the one who didn't understand those kinds of threats.

"I like you being here," his guide answered, tapping him with the cups again to get his attention. "I get to exercise more languages. I mean, before you came here, I was stuck speaking French when the Canadian agents came in."

"_Französisch_?"

"_Oui, Französisch_."

He frowned. She grinned.

"Speaking's important to me."

"I know," he said without his mental filter. She snorted.

"When I speak, I know I'm still here. But sometimes, it gets a little foggy up _here_." She tapped her forehead with her non-cup-occupied hand. "So when that happens, I can always talk my way back to normal. I know _my_ voice, it's not the same as the others. It keeps me on track and in control."

That word again.

"Anyway – I like you Sasha. You entertain me and actually react when I call you stuff like _Honigbär_. No one else gets it, and I'm always looking for somebody to know what the hell I'm talking about."

"You think I do?"

"Ha!" His guide gave him a rather hard tap to the head with the cups. "_Herr Nein, du bist ein Genuss. _And I really need to get going and try and find Zanotto – don't drop Lili or anything." She gave him one final tap before dashing off, tossing the cups in a garbage can on the way.

"What makes you think I _will_?" he shouted after her. She just waved before exiting.

Sasha heaved a sigh before maneuvering Lili into his lap, slumping after doing so. The baby sat still for a few moments before wiggling, so he pressed his legs together and turned her onto her back. Her eyes wandered around the ceiling before meeting with his.

They were very inquisitive eyes, but at the same time, they felt so damn innocent. He narrowed his, staring at her with all the intent he could muster, but all his concentration was lost when she babbled out again, "Gna-gna."

"_Steuern_," he said in reply. Lili's once giggling mouth was now closed, her expression curious. Sasha blinked, glancing and surveying the room quickly, before looking back down at her. "Everyone keeps mentioning control...what am I missing?"

Had he not already done this sort of thing to practice English, he surely would've thought himself crazy. Not that he already hadn't been called that. It was just...talking to a baby wasn't going to yield any answers.


	5. The Grand Master Himself

A/N: With a special shout-out to AmazinglyBad for the inspiration on Truman.

* * *

Ah, spring.

Spring for the Psychonauts tended to bring about a new air to the base. There was the buzz from the cadets who had gone straight through the academy and, in their last few months, were constantly teetering with excitement and anxiety. There was the breath of crisp, fresh air from when someone in the office decided to open their windows a bit prematurely, or the chill when one underestimated the breezes of March. There was a sense of renewal and a kick in the head to wake up, and that is where Sasha found himself today.

It wasn't like somebody was _actually_ kicking him in the head, but poking? Yes, that was an accurate description.

"Agent Nein? Agent Nein? Agent Nein? AgentNeinAgentNeinAgentNeinA gentNeinAgent -"

"_Razputin_," he slurred through a half-clenched jaw. He blinked to clear his vision before realizing a familiar tint was missing.

Sasha groped around for his glasses, looking up to see where he was – his office – and what he could diagnose from that – he was at work – and then who was there – Raz, of course. And the boy was obscenely close if he was that well in-focus, so the next logical step was to shove him away with his free hand.

"Agent Nein!" Raz chirped despite having been pushed away. "I didn't think you'd sleep on the job." His voice suggested fascination, but his grin was more mischievous.

"It happens," Sasha grumbled before coughing to clear his throat. He finally succeeded in locating his glasses, which were resting in an open case under his computer's monitor. The case itself was a gift from a graduated cadet, and its overall neutral tones and tasteful cover design fit in well enough to his office. The boy who had bequeathed the gift had insisted Sasha was "the best ever" when it came to teaching, and all the German could do was nod stiffly while trying not to drown in the sea of awkward and sentimentality.

But enough reminiscing.

"Razputin, is there a reason for your being here?" The senior agent slid his glasses back over his eyes, his vision well-restored and familiar tint returned to the world.

"Sir!" Raz snapped his hand to his forehead in salute, drawing his expression in tightly. "I was ordered to get you for Grand Master Zanotto, Agent Nein Sir!"

Sasha was already taking his glasses back off, but this time so he could rub his eyes and pinch his nose bridge. "No need to be so loud..."

Raz maintained his salute. "Sir! The Grand Master sent me because he couldn't reach you telepathically, Sir!"

This was tiring. "At ease," Sasha ordered with as much force as he could muster from having just been woken up. Raz lingered in his pose before suddenly releasing a gasp of breath, shrinking down a number of inches upon doing so.

"Thanks Agent Nein," he said. "It was just – official Psychonauts business! So official it came from the head! That's like – that's _official-official!"_

Sasha was more concerned over the fact that Zanotto now knew he had been sleeping on the job than from the actual summons. He stood up and rotated his neck, attempting to relieve the awful cramp that had formed there. Office naps were not pleasant, but they usually just sort of _happened_. Then again, if he had been consciously aware enough to take his glasses off, was it really all that spontaneous? Except...he couldn't remember taking them off...and yet, that wasn't unusual; trying to recall something from being half-awake was like trying to remember the specifics of a dream. It just didn't happen.

"Like, _super official._"

Oh right, Raz was still there. His summoning. Sasha mentally sighed before heading out the door of his office that the younger agent had left open. He then looked back to see Raz rather eager to move, but twitching his legs instead. Perhaps it was his still somewhat groggy status at play, but the German almost felt a string of sympathy strum for the boy.

"Did Truman say anything specific?" He decided to throw the kid a bone, hoping that the invitation to chat would also extend to one of accompaniment - not that the young agent really needed the encouragement. Talking was undoubtedly one of the boy's stronger suits. It was a skill for excitable people. So Raz...Milla...and perhaps most unfortunately, Truman. Thankfully it seemed to be one that mellowed with age.

"No Sir!" The formal pattern he had taken to speak stood in stark contrast to the orange levitation ball the young psychic was wheeling around on. Sasha ran a hand through his hair, index finger drawing down his part while his thumb spread in the opposite direction from his remaining digits. He could at least look the role of the "no, I was not sleeping on the job" agent.

"Nothing?"

"No Sir! All Grand Master Zanotto said was -" Raz's voice suddenly became deeper "- 'Agent Aquato, I need to speak to Agent Nein but he seems to have drifted off the grid. That either means he's sleeping or he's dead, and the second option is more likely because it's Sasha, y'know?' And then I wasn't sure what to do because it's _the Grand Master!_"

"Never met?" This one was genuinely puzzling. Raz and Lili were, for all intents and purposes, 'dating', and that had been going on for half a year now.

"No, we've _met_ but I haven't really talked to him _here_ and I dunno how I'm supposed to act around him."

"If it's Truman..." Sasha remembered back to his encounters with the man. They were usually quick, hyper, bizarre affairs; ones that sometimes involved the older man handing over his daughter for the younger man to look after. So that didn't help his summary of their boss. "Truman is offended if you don't laugh at his jokes."

"Right! So then – so I just kind of rolled with it and laughed, and that seemed to work, because then he said -" again with the pitched voice "- 'Well, he may be sleeping, but Nein is a robot so that scenario seems unlikely.'"

Sasha let the words sink in, hoping to make the young agent just the slightest bit uncomfortable, before sighing. "Did he make any jokes about...what was it...cyborg zero-zero-nine?"

Raz looked up at the older agent, confused. "Um...no...?"

"Ah. Then, forget it." The 'Sasha Nein is a robot' joke had probably started with Truman, who had a bizarre stockpile of what one would call 'geek knowledge' at his disposal. He _would_ gleefully reference a 1964 manga that had (somewhat) recently received a new animation – content better suited for his child than himself.

So robot jokes. Sasha blamed them on Truman and had never quite given up that pretense. There were several ways to prove he _wasn't _mechanical, of course, but half of them were indecent and the other half ended in bloodshed. Little jokes here and there, although weary after a decade plus some, were favorable to suspension and dry cleaning bills. Sometimes, though, it almost seemed worth it.

"Razputin."

"Huh? Yeah?"

"Are you sure that's 'all' he said?"

"Yessir!"

"Mmm." Truth be told, Truman only giving a paragraph's worth of dialog constituted as him not quite saying anything. The trick to him was figuring out a proper filtration system: every ten sentences usually contained something worth listening to, and if not, then give it ten minutes. After that, it was like he thought you had passed a test and he'd actually get down to brass tacks.

Then again, there was a reason Zanotto was the grand master: he knew what he was doing. If Truman wanted to be a bit of a chatterbox with a Sega Genesis conspicuously on display in the office and always hooked up to the television, then so be it.

The grand master's office was located about where anyone thought it would be, meaning a vertical trek was in order, meaning a ride on the elevators it was. Raz, however, had different thoughts, and rolled right on when Sasha stopped and pressed the 'up' button.

"Stairs'd be faster," he said, pointing at the door for said stairs.

"Has she recruited you too?" Sasha cut straight to the quick on the game, side-glaring from his glasses to the young agent.

"Who did what?" he blurred out in an attempt at surprise.

"'You need the exercise, darling'," was the best imitation Sasha could pull off. Raz winced at it, but was stifling laughter soon after. "Agent Vodello has pestered me on this subject every day of every year for the past..." He paused, finding it hard to remember how long they had been partnered up. "...for the duration of our partnership."

"Well then – shouldn't you?"

"I get _enough_," he insisted. Between running around on missions, dashing across the office, and chasing children in the summer, he felt he more than deserved to take the elevator. "And I don't need Agent Vodello's approval on this matter."

_Ding._

Sasha side-stepped to the left as two agents filed out, a cadet scurrying behind them. He didn't bother looking to see what Razputin was doing – especially now that he knew the boy was being Milla's encouragement monkey. As the doors began to close, Raz dive-rolled in, tumbling onto his back and hitting his feet against the wall.

Peering down at the boy, Sasha couldn't help but let a smirk drag his mouth into his cheek. "Comfortable?"

"...Kinda." Raz arched his back before swinging his legs up and over his head, his arms going on either side as they pushed him into a handstand. "This is better." He held the pose as the elevator continued its ascent, with Sasha fighting off the urge to prod his feet and tip him over.

_Ding._

Raz hand-walked his way out, much to the amusement of the mail clerk waiting to enter. The two exchanged glances and grins before Sasha shimmied his way out past the clerk's cart, taking a turn to the right and marching, quickly but rhythmically, to his end destination. Truman's office, while located on the top floor, shared space with other high-ranking officers' space, plus the most elaborate conference room in the headquarters. The only real indication that the grand head of all agents was here was the secretary's desk outside his set of double-doors.

"Oh – morning, Agent Nein." The young agent working the desk, awkwardly lanky and with mousy red hair, clambered to his feet and threw up his arm in a shaky salute. Exhaling another mental sigh, Sasha shook his fingers down at the boy.

...Why did it seem like everyone was so much younger than him all of a sudden? He wasn't old...well..not.._old-_old...

"Good morning, Thomas." Sasha recalled him from some of the higher-level courses in the academy. While classified as a telepathist, he also had an incredibly photographic memory (which, sadly, did not carry over to clairvoyance), and so often fell victim to the joke that his sharpest skill was "remembering things". It was also part of the reason why he had taken up residence as Zanotto's secretary.

"Was Agent Aquato successful in -"

"I was!" Raz came stumbling down the hallway, still on his hands, purposefully kicking his feet into the air as they sagged down to his head. Sasha released an actual sigh this time, a rumbling groan flavoring the end.

"I am here to see Truman," the oldest of the agents stressed, his fingers squeezing into fists that he kept hidden in his coat pockets. "I assume he is expecting my arrival?"

"Oh – oh yeah, yeah." Thomas's shaky hand withdrew from his forehead before he aggressively jammed his fingers into place above his right eyebrow. A few seconds of silence followed and he replied, "Yep, he's good; you can go in."

But there was no need for movement, as the double doors burst open with a wind of violet psynergy, startling Thomas (who fell into his seat) and Raz (who collapsed forward onto his back). Sasha, however, found himself grasped by the torso and yanked forward with a violent tug. Be it instincts or actual reactions, his teeth clenched in his jaw while an automated secondary response system took over – there was an instant of green, a flash and a snip, and while he may have been pulled into the office, he was planted firmly on one knee and one foot before his arms snapped into position.

"So has Vodello seen you like this or am I just special?" The doors of the office quietly snapped shut, and Sasha's vision sharpened from shapes into details.

_Sigh_. Truman.

"Was that really necessa -"

"It _was_ necessa, it was _completely_ necessa."

Truman Zanotto, Grand Master of the Psychonauts for something like a few years or however time was counted – if there was a phrase to describe him, perhaps the best one was _oldest brother_. He held the authority but only half the respect, which was still more than you, as a regular agent, had. His office seemed to both enforce and fight the image: carpet woven in an overly ornate design, desk large, wooden, and incomprehensibly carved, leather seats that were comfortable and full of curves, plus both sides of the room lined with bookshelves crammed with volumes of literature and research. But then came the other things: pictures on the desk of the Zanotto family, small figurines from whatever show/movie/comic book he was into at the time lining the window ledge behind the desk, a computer covered in sticky notes that ranged from 'clean coffee thermos' to 'remind Agent MacIntyre to chew before swallowing', and, of course, the Sega Genesis that sat on the ground in front of a TV perched in a spot on the bookshelf.

It was, to use a polite term, an eclectic space. To use a Sasha term, it was, at best, hideously grotesque.

Zanotto gestured towards the large leather seats in front of his desk. Sasha hefted himself up from his pose, dusting off his sleeves to appear somewhat dignified, and complied with the silent request. He wasn't going to try and pull any punches.

"Well, good news, you have confirmed yourself as 'not a robot'." Truman, with his arms behind his back, swung himself forward on his feet, beaming an amused smile.

"I'm honored," Sasha replied dryly, leaning back in the chair and propping his leg on his knee.

"I didn't know you slept."

"Humans do that."

"Were you up all night or something?" He was completely straight-faced at this. It was suspicious.

"I recall the sky lightening, but not the actual sunrise."

"See, I just figured that with your rather renown talent of pulling all-nighters, there were two options – you were a robot or you were a gigolo."

Of course he was up to something snarky. "Being paid for my company wouldn't be so bad."

"You looking to get into the business?" Truman asked slyly, taking a seat in his own ornate chair.

"Haven't thought of it before, but maybe it's time to look into alternate career paths."

"The Psychonauts will be sad to see you go, but I'm sure the cougars will be happy."

"And here I thought I was too old to be cougar bait."

"No way, not when you have a minx hanging around."

"Change the subject, please."

"So how 'bout that thing we have lined up for you two?"

The ten sentence method was indeed a reliable one. Sasha settled fully into the chair, relaxing his shoulders. "What's going on?"

Truman flicked his hand, grabbing a folder at the far edge of the desk with his blur of violet psynergy and levitating it to Sasha, who grabbed it midair and propped it open on his knee.

"Honestly nothing too special, it's just routine." The grand master turned in his chair, kicking his feet onto the desk while grabbing a figurine from the window ledge behind him. "Have to punt you off to the other coast, apologies in advanced on that."

Sasha's hand automatically moved to the back of the folder, where the airport itinerary was located. The boarding pass was for two days from now; seven and a half hours for flight time, with one stop in Milwaukee. Coast to coast trips were always a huge timesink, and that was just when traveling continentally.

"Nothing special?"

"More diplomatic than anything – the Seattle office needs their yearly reminder that we still care about them and all that stuff. Heard you have some friends out there."

"That's not the word I would use."

"Those five are a handful, I know, but they're good kids."

Sasha glared at the grand master over the tops of his glasses. "They're not _children_, Zanotto, but they _act_ like them."

"Nein, we literally have a child working for us at the moment." Truman returned the glare through narrowed eyes, a look that deserved a trademark for being cold and authoritative. "I wouldn't try arguing that point any further."

So the topic was dropped without further comment.

"As two of the best, we want you and Vodello to, you know, show Seattle that the big wigs here in the east still appreciate them – so basically, she does the talking part, and you just stand there doing what you do. Looking pretty, I'm sure the ladies love that."

The German lowered his brow. "Of course, hence my _thriving_ gigolo career."

Truman paused, glancing up at the ceiling to think. "Maybe take up juggling, people like juggling."

At the silence received, he added, "Juggling _chainsaws_."

Sasha sighed. "It sounds like you could just send Vodello."

The grand master waved his hand, posing the arm of his figurine with the other. "Nah nah, can't do that. One, it makes us look lazy; two, you guys are pretty much one object; three, Vodello would just complain about you not being there; and four, your ass needs to leave this 20 mile radius soon."

Rolling his eyes while snapping the folder shut, Sasha sunk further in the chair and scoffed. "I'm fine. Last mission was -"

"32 days ago." Truman levitated the figurine he had been playing with, twisting the legs into a crouching pose. "You start going funny if it's been three weeks between assignments. I always just thought it was your wiring sparking out – and then today when I couldn't reach you, I figured 'well, here we are, his batteries finally ran dry'."

"And yet you put me at Whispering Rock?"

"Can't help that you want to rock out."

Sasha groaned.

"You were just meant to be a rocker."

He groaned again.

"Do you do any rock climbing while you're out there?"

He groaned a third time. Truman chuckled at his accomplished irking.

"Whispering Rock is like one big mission, so it doesn't count against your stir-crazy quota. And lest we forget, _you_ volunteer for it. Also you've got Vodello out there."

"You forget Oleander and Cruller."

"Ohhh trust me, it's hard to forget those two. ...I'm trying to tell a joke here, Nein, you're ruining it."

"Forgive my lack of comedic timing."

"I was _going_ to say something about you two snuggling by the campfire, but by now the joke is dead."

There was absolutely zero point in trying to convince Truman that what was between Sasha and Milla was platonic. Completely...utterly...totally...platonic. Professional! That was a better word. ...Well, not the _best_; he liked to think that their relationship wasn't strictly confined to work, because it wasn't.

It was just that the Zanottos – all three of them, from the Truman to the Rose to the Lili - were dead-set convinced on there being much more interesting things going on.

"I am not fond of such activities."

"Already took that into account. Vodello puts in all the effort. You sit there and ah...look pretty."

"...So who helped you with this scenario?"

"Mostly Lili, she gives pretty good sensory details, particularly when the camp is involved."

"Of course..."

"Rose gave some flavor text. Wanna hear?"

"Not really, no."

Truman tossed his figurine into the air, catching it with a levitation bubble and gently setting it back into its spot on the ledge. He then knitted his fingers together, propping his chin on his hands, before glancing at the man across from him.

The two let a silence pass – not uncomfortable, not awkward, and not even all that quiet. Outside the doors came the idle chatter of Thomas and Raz, and there were a few nesting birds somewhere near the window making an awful lot of noise. It was a one-on-one staring match between the agent and the grand master, and finally, one of them yielded.

It was the one that was fond of talking.

"How are you feeling these days, Nein?"

Sasha raised an eyebrow. Any Zanotto that tried to dig into him for information was not one to be trusted. "Content."

"Just content?"

"Content is not a terrible state to be in."

Truman shrugged. "Didn't say it was. It's merely the idea that when one is content, they are satisfied, but not exactly fulfilled. They are comfortable with their current state of being."

"Precisely."

"Nothing wrong with being neutral."

"Mhm."

"Like Switzerland."

"Quite."

"You ever think of transferring somewhere else? Like Switzerland?"

"Once."

"Oh?" Truman seemed genuinely intrigued by the notion.

"It was _to_ Switzerland. But I don't speak Romansh."

"And that's a problem?"

"It is when their chief's native language is as such."

Nodding along, Truman realized something within the conversation: "When were you thinking about transferring to Switzerland?"

"Before your appointment to grand master."

"Good, good; I was startin' to think you were trying to say something about my leadership..."

"If I had a problem your leadership, I would've addressed it much sooner than now."

Truman chuckled. "Fair point." He continued nodding his head in conjunction with his boisterous smile, though it slowed in its rhythm the more time passed. The two of them were left with a strange silence, a knowing piece of quiet that was rather hushed this time around, as even Thomas and Raz had ceased their chatter.

"Is there something you wish to address, Grand Master Zanotto?"

The man in question perked at the title, but settled into a tired smirk. He was suddenly a man that encompassed all the traits people called him out on – at once wise but youthful, sincere and camouflaged, aggressive yet gentle. It was the appearance of an older brother.

There was a difference of twelve years between the two men. It was the kind of distance that suggested you, the younger, were an accident, but at the same time seemed legitimate enough to feel like you were both planned. And like siblings worked – or, as Sasha assumed siblings to work – there was an odd sense of pressure coming down on the younger man. Eleven years ago, he was new to the country, the language, the headquarters – but eleven years ago, Truman had become a father. And a few years later, when the younger had only a handful of years as an agent under his belt, the older was at the highest ranking position in the entirety of the Psychonauts.

Being the grand master wasn't necessarily a sign of being the most powerful psychic – power, after all, was easy to come by, and even more easily misinterpreted. But it did mean the person in question was best suited for the job, which in essence meant they were in possession of a generally well-rounded character. That was Zanotto.

It was clearly not him.

Truman turned in his chair, hunching forward and staring out the window. "You don't have to take my advice or anything, Nein, I just need you to follow my orders. Do the job stuff and try not to get in trouble or break your collarbone like you did in Chattanooga."

Sasha frowned. He was hoping that little incident would've been forgotten by now.

"But if you want to do something to actually make you _happy_ for once..." Truman continued his spin, picking up another figurine off the ledge while doing so. "I mean...I know 'Sasha Nein' and 'happiness' don't go together, but both of those words go along with someone else I know."

Sasha couldn't fight back when Truman was in 'brother' mode. He just...couldn't. Few people were willing to appease his 'feeling' side rather than the logical one, and it was unfortunate that his very boss was one of them. And he wasn't even empathic.

"Cram those three nouns into a sentence and you might enjoy yourself a bit is all I'm saying."

* * *

"Sasha darling, are you in there?"

Milla pursed her lips, allowing a few seconds to pass by before she opened the door of her partner's office. She figured he was maybe in the bathroom, or getting coffee, or maybe he hadn't even shown up given his habits of all-nighters – but she wasn't expecting to see him sleeping.

Him. Sleeping. On the job.

"Oh sweetie, you haven't done this since the cadet days..."

Quietly hovering in, Milla performed a quick inspection of the man – he was breathing, that was good, and had his head lopsidedly perched on folded arms. It looked uncomfortable at best.

But she was more concerned about his glasses, skewed across his face, one of the nose pads about close to digging into an eye.

Milla sighed, gently lifting the orange lenses from his head with one sweep of her hand. She scanned his desk for a proper surface – Sasha was _very_ particular about his eye-wear, that was for certain – and was happy to see a case propped up next to his cup of pens.

"Thomas, what a sweetheart," she murmured, recognizing the gift. With another swish of her hands, she pried the case open with a string of pink psynergy and plunked his glasses down in the plush lining.

"I'll check you for that lunch date later, darling."


	6. The Hypothetical

A/N: It's been a while, huh? Graduating college took priority to my life since the last chapter, and in the meantime, I hemmed and hawed on this one quite a lot. I even dropped it for a bit (like, a week); the positive being that I've already started writing the next one, which should see a much faster completion date. Thank you very much for your intermittent support!

* * *

"International travel is awful."

"But..._you're_ international."

"Yeah, literally..."

"If we're going to be splitting hairs, then we can all be classified as such."

Three on one. Three women to his one lowly man. How did this happen.

Twenty hours ago, Sasha and Milla had been running through the airport, tickets in hand and teeth, having been given the wrong information for their mission and working on a delay. After successfully making it onto the plane – Milla batting her eyelashes and convincing a man to give up his seat so the two could sit together, Sasha merely standing in the background and being unreadable, as usual – they had made it to Switzerland without much incident, and were greeted with another unreadable face and a frown.

It was not to be taken personally, though.

"Agents Cymtak, Hawkins..."

"Nein, Vodello."

Cymtak cracked a smile, but her ever-closed eyes were what made her unreadable. "Been a while, haven't seen you two since – what, the Tokyo conference?"

"Ah, much too long," Milla agreed while sweeping Hawkins into a hug. Cymtak merely continued her upwardly-tilted stare at Sasha before reaching out a gloved hand for him to shake. He accepted it, his touch light, but much preferring it to the more touchy options (hugs or, God forbid, cheek-to-cheek kisses).

"Wait, when was Tokyo?" Hawkins asked as the four began their trek through the airport. Cymtak had withdrawn a phone from her pocket and was furiously punching out a text message on the nine-digit pad. SMS technology was annoyingly limited, but had been heartily embraced by the Psychonauts for whatever reason.

"Like three years ago?" she suggested, not looking up from the phone. "You and Flynn had been dating for a bit but not long enough for you to tell him what exactly it was you did and why you had to leave the country for a week."

Hawkins sighed. "Yeah...got creative on that one..."

"How _did_ that work out?" Milla asked, dipping her head forward to look over Cymtak. "I remember you talking about Flynn; he seemed...charming."

Cymtak snorted, snapping the phone shut and glancing over at the Brazilian. "'Charming' is a good word, and, well, I'd say it went pretty well." She chuckled, and Hawkins tugged the hat on her head further down over her brow, the rim covering her eyes. "What?! You're engaged, and that's pretty good, right?"

Milla lit up. Had they not been in public, she would've already performed a series of complicated aerial maneuvers, complete with colored smoke trial and brass fanfare. She instead had to make due with leaping out in front of Hawkins, skating backwards on her heeled boots and lifting the other woman's hands in slow, sweeping shakes. "That's _wonderful_, darling!"

"Err um...thank you," Hawkins murmured, what was viewable of her face flushed red. She swallowed before looking up, shaking her head with a sigh. "Y'know, I should've just dated within the agency, it would've made things simpler."

"Yeah, and that's how we get inbreeding," Cymtak shrugged back. She turned her head to Milla, raising her eyebrows. "I mean, not _totally_, but if there _was _a strict policy..."

"If there's no guarantee, then why bother?" Milla was still walking backwards, perhaps the only human able to move in any direction with equal amounts of grace. "You find love in the most unusual of places, you know?"

"That's Flynn," Cymtak said, pointing her finger while receiving a scowl from Hawkins, which the former agent promptly ignored. It was a trained routine between the two – not blood-related, but behaving enough as sisters to fool many.

"I'm sorry, but _who's_ the one with the ring on?"

"I can wear a ring – I don't, it'd get in the way, but I can."

"You wear _gloves_, there's nothing for it to get in the way of!"

To put it another way, their relationship was oftentimes hostile.

"Girls," Sasha cut in, receiving a glare and an angered brow in return. "Um...ladies," he corrected. "Ladies, you're both pretty."

After a short silence, Hawkins glanced back at Milla. "Did you teach him to be funny since we've been gone?"

"Heck, I don't remember him having a sense of humor in Tokyo either," Cymtak added.

Was he a coat rack? Did people just like pretending he wasn't there and couldn't hear them? The teeth grinding had already begun when Milla, bless her soul, shook her head, smiling her ever-present smile. "Sasha is very funny. You just have to be around him to hear it." It wasn't quite the defense he was hoping for, but it was sufficient.

"...Yeah, I'm not buyin' it." Cymtak returned her attention to her phone as it buzzed in her hand. "But whatever."

Sasha tilted his head up to the ceiling, hoping to alleviate himself of the duo's antics, glancing up in time to read the sign for baggage claim. This mission was a slightly special one, with orders coming for it to be a 'carry-on only' trip. There was less tracking involved that way, which was of particular importance when the goal was to tread as lightly as possible.

("...Carry-on only? To Switzerland?" Sasha had found himself asking Truman after reading through the briefing.

"Accommodations have been made," the grand master replied with a lazy wave of his hand. "Bring a change of undies and fill the rest with liquor, I don't care. We're just not going to risk it.")

The group, led by a keypad-punching Cymtak, went through a set of automatic doors, finding themselves out on a sidewalk and surrounded by people running mad with suitcases or leisurely strolling around; some hopping out of cabs, others piling onto and off of buses. Sasha looked down as Cymtak snapped the cell phone shut, holding up a finger to his glance without returning the gesture.

"We're gettin' picked-up, just relax."

"Gladly." In a swift one-two maneuver, Sasha snatched a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, forcing himself to remember to manually place it in his mouth, before miming flicking a lighter while instead quickly igniting the end with a tiny zap of pyrokinesis. The cramps of the long flight eased as he took in a drag, the stress floating away on his exhale.

But of course his comfort came to bother others. Hawkins's nostrils flared before she clamped her hands over her nose, just in time to cover a sneeze. She glowered at Sasha before sidestepping to the right, placing Cymtak between herself and him.

Milla took the hint and tsked, noodling her arm through the open loop of Sasha's. He flinched as she patted the sleeve covering his forearm. "Darling, I wish you'd stop."

"Mmm," was his answer. He felt a hollow slap in his mentalscape. "After this pack," he added lazily.

"You keep saying that, but you're a no-show on the commitment."

"I'm not a no-show. I invite commitment over but it always has something better going on."

There came a pause, after which Cymtak turned her head and raised an eyebrow. "You _sure_ you didn't teach him to be funny since we last met?"

"Eh, that wasn't exactly funny," Hawkins mumbled with a shrug. Sasha agreed.

* * *

If international travel was awful, then international accommodations were...well, not much better.

Every Psychonauts headquarters had a dorm, but much like college, once you got out of the dorm, you didn't really feel like ever going back. Dorm life was fine for when it was a new thing to you, but upon leaving a dorm, nobody ever really wanted to go back.

So of course, Sasha and Milla ended up in the Swiss dorms.

To be fair, they were rooming on the floor for guests, so it was more like a hotel. But dorms were dorms, and the base in Switzerland was not a new one. Sasha knocked on the exposed brick around the door frame to his bathroom, frowning at its mere existence. He would've rather been spending his own money on a ho – well, actually...maybe not...

_Knockknockknockknock knock._

"Come in," he answered lazily, stepping away from the bathroom and into the short main hallway of the room. The doorknob jostled back and forth before a voice called back, "I can't, you locked the damn door."

Sasha rolled his eyes. "Unlock it, then."

"Breach of privacy: if I do that and get caught, then I can get fired, and I'm not getting fired over _you,_ okay_ mein liebes_ _Honigbär?_"

With another roll of the eyes for safety, Sasha twitched an eyebrow and unlocked the door, telekinetically pulling it open so as to allow his visitor space to enter. Agent Cymtak marched in, wheeling a small suitcase behind her, dragging it towards the dresser in the room. She propped it up with a satisfied nod before lifting her blank gaze in his direction.

"You've probably figured out that these are your clothes - freshly laundered by whatever poor kid they have doing that this week. They're just civilian clothes, nothing to make you stand out. Oh, and all the other kinds of things you'll need." She paused. "Like PJs. Unless you sleep in the nude, I dunno. Sounds European enough. Do you do that? You didn't do that back in the day."

Cymtak was still as motor-mouthed as ever. Even with her multiple-personalities under control, they had left enough of an impression on the woman that she probably never wanted to stop talking. Personal demons had their way of _getting_ to the people they haunted, whether through a clear connection or not. Milla, for instance, was quite intent on nurturing whatever children she was put in charge of. That connection was obvious. Cymtak, meanwhile, had relied on speaking for so long to keep herself in check that it was merely habit.

"Pleased to know you remember my sleeping habits," was all Sasha chose to reply to with.

"I remember you had them, which is about all I knew of them. I don't need to know _all _the things, Nein." She grimaced. "The less I know about _that_, the better, let's be honest here."

They allowed a lull to settle in. Cymtak coughed.

"Anyway, we're going to get dinner in about an hour, so you're free to join us. Flynn's coming, so you probably won't be the buttmonkey, and Vodello already said yes, so I guess that means I'll see you in the main hall in an hour." She grinned cheekily to take the edge off, though it took him a moment to come up with a proper reaction. He supposed he should've felt insulted, though because that was the reaction _she_ wanted, he didn't want to give that satisfaction.

So he went back to judging the exposed brick through the holes in the wall. "I suppose so."

Cymtak chuckled. "You're not as much fun as you used to be."

"Oh?" Sasha glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. "Weren't you saying earlier that I've gotten 'funnier'?"

"Ah, but see, it used to be that the fun came at your _expense_, not 'cause you were the one _making_ it."

"In other words, you're not getting the reactions from me that you had hoped."

"Pretty much."

"I _have_ changed, believe it or not." Sasha strolled over to the other agent but bypassed her, instead telekinetically lifting the suitcase she had wheeled in and setting it on the bed. If he was going to be caught in conversation, he might as well be getting something done in the meantime. "People do that."

Cymtak took a step backwards before hopping into the air, levitating herself up and sitting cross-legged. "Good to hear you're not the wounded little woodland creature you used to be. Oh – speaking of growing up..."

Sasha frowned. Was this another jab at him to illicit some sort of annoyed reaction?

"You're still at the summer camp, right?"

Well that was a slightly unexpected question. "Yes?" He couldn't help the inquiring tone that flavored the end of the word. Whispering Rock didn't come up in conversation very often, particularly not when he was overseas.

"So I'm guessing you like it, then?"

"It has its positives and negatives, like every job." What was she getting at...was this going to be another 'so what happened last summer with the brain kidnappings?' session?

"What ahh...how...um...how do I put this..." Cymtak had her chin cradled in one hand, the other tapping out a nervous beat on her knee. "I want to...ask you...a...question."

Silence. Sasha continued sorting through his temporary clothing, trying for once to make the other agent be the awkward one. It was a cheap shot, but worth it.

"You're a counselor at the camp. So you...meet the parents of the kids, right?"

"For the most part. Agent Vodello is better with those aspects, but I still have to deal with them."

"Yeah, makes sense. I just...is it any better?"

Sasha paused, looking back at her. "From what?"

"Are the parents any better than they used to be?"

The question was hard to answer, yes. But more than that, Sasha had to let it sink in. He had to let the words settle in his mind and start jogging memories. He had to think of not only the children at the camp throughout the years, but his own childhood, plus the stories he had heard from others. And he had to observe Cymtak, her blank expression twitching just the slightest bit, and he had to remember her own story.

Cymtak came from non-psychics, as far as the records knew. Like many, her abilities sprung up unexpectedly and, like many without an explanation, she hid them away for as long as she could, afraid of who she was. When she finally snapped and lost herself amidst the split factions of her mind, her parents wanted nothing to do with her. He had made the decision to distance himself from his father. She never even had a say in the matter.

"The parents are about the same from when I started," Sasha began, turning on his heel and setting his hands in his pockets. "It's a mixture. Relatively the same ratio of those who are psychic and those who are not. Each parent takes it in different ways; sometimes the split is even between mother and father." Those were always darkly amusing. One parent would sit in the car and pretend the world didn't exist, while the other would proudly be hovering over their child with glee. Usually if they had made it to the summer camp, arguments wouldn't break out. "Is there a particular reason you ask?"

"I'm being a good partner, Nein." A tiny prick of a force started burning itself into Sasha's mentalscape, a flood of dread and anxiety leaking in. He glared towards Cymtak, who had her brow furrowed slightly. "I'm worried about Agent Hawkins and her fiancee and their hypothetical offspring."

While the jump from 'engaged' to 'having children' was a bit drastic from his perspective (his very, very single perspective), it was logical. "What exactly are you worried about?" The gamut of issues facing young psychics was a wide one. Bullying from other children, maintaining a healthy self-image, finding support within the family: those were hard enough. Then there was the bureaucratic red tape said child might've been asked to endure if their psychic abilities were strong enough to either wreak havoc or invoke interest from the Psychonauts. "It isn't their child-rearing, is it?"

Cymtak cracked a smile. "And you say you're not funny...No, it isn't that. I'm sure they'll be fine, like every other parent."

"Are you concerned over how the non-psychic parent would react?" It was a fair question. Worries of spouses or siblings being 'left out' were legitimate and had torn some mixed families apart.

"Flynn? Nah. He's can be an idiot but he's a genuine kinda guy. Even won over the boss here."

"Hm. That's quite impressive for a civilian."

"Well, once Hawkins wanted to start dragging him to office functions, he sorta had to get used to it and win people's favor."

Being psychic wasn't purely genetic, as was obvious to the two of them. The chances were higher if one or both parents were, of course, but as there was no guarantee, there was no real way to predict it. This lack of guarantee, and indeed, the habit of psychic abilities popping up randomly from nowhere, meant there was no fraternization policy for agents. Milla called it finding love in 'unusual places', and the opposite played into the 'inbreeding' joke Cymtak had made earlier at the airport.

"Are you worried about the larger family?"

There was a brief pause before she answered. "...A little."

The force that had previously been burning just slightly started pounding again. Sasha realized at that point that Cymtak was leaking her emotions into his head – just a little, like a drop of blood in a bowl of water. They dissipated through him, but the initial burst was enough to read that there was a larger issue. "How so?"

"It's...unlike me, Hawkins maintains a relationship with her parents. I think one of her grandparents was psychic? Some relative; so when it sprung up in her it wasn't as much of a surprise. Flynn though...I don't worry about _him_, but his folks...they just sorta seem uncomfortable with it."

"Are you surprised?"

She sighed, slouching in her mid-air spot. "No..." was her drawling answer.

"But this still concerns you."

"Well – yeah!" Cymtak folded her arms tightly across her chest, frowning tightly. "Of course it does! It doesn't bother _you_?"

Sasha grimaced internally. This was obviously a delicate situation to walk around. "I feel you are letting your own personal emotions get in the way of proper judgment."

"_How_ is that a problem?! How else am I supposed to _be worried_ about this if I don't let my own feelings interpret the matter?"

He hated this card. He really, really hated playing this one: "Did you ever consider how the non-psychic family members must feel about this?" This time, he pushed back on the hole Cymtak had made, canceling out the pressure to the point where she dipped a few inches in her levitation. It wasn't intended as rude, but merely to get the point across.

"Most people don't know about us, and if they do, they think it's fake." The only real public face they had was the True Psychic Tales comics, which straddled the line between being laughable and revealing too much. "We struggle with finding acceptance when others don't understand how or why we do what we do, or are what we are."

"And do you think that's _fair_?" Cymtak hounded, an eyebrow raised, her head bobbing forward.

Sasha mirrored her expression. "Was it ever fair for us?"

The pressure hole suddenly plugged up, the traces of foreign emotion snapped away. The other agent lowered her head, her blank gaze staring down slowly at the floor before she let out a hollow, empty, "No."

With the question largely answered, there was little else for Sasha to do but return to his laundry, his head pulsing with an impending headache. Forcing one's emotions onto another was taxing if you weren't naturally empathic, and fighting it off was both an offensive and defensive maneuver. Still though, he felt...well, he felt like he didn't quite believe in what he had just told her.

It was true, though. Any psychic child brought into the world was going to face hardships, and those largely hadn't changed. Really the only thing that had made a difference was the founding of the Psychonauts, because in the very least, it gave people a place for answers.

He did want to believe the agency made a difference, and somewhere in him, beneath all the stoicness and sarcasm, he knew he was making a difference even in the relatively few lives he was able to teach at Whispering Rock. But it was so nauseatingly sentimental – thoughts better suited for Milla, not for him – that he made sure to bury them deep.

Things were slightly more fair to the kids now than when he was younger. But on the whole, in the grand scheme of things, it was all the same. There were always going to be parents who didn't understand. There were always going to be hostile family members. There were always going to be bullies, and misunderstandings, and confused feelings. They were as natural to the human condition as being human itself, but amplified, since few people understood them.

"I'm not a fan of things not being fair," Cymtak mumbled.

"I don't think very many people are," replied Sasha, folding a sock. "Particularly not in situations like this, when one's life is being controlled by outside forces and abilities they never even asked for."

"I mean...I guess I shouldn't worry too much, right? There's not a one-hundred perecent guarantee they'll even have kids – though it's reallllly looking plausible – and even then..." She sighed, a reluctant smile coming to her face. "Even then, well, least they'll have a better environment than a lot of us did."

"Mmm."

"You ever plan on becoming a father, Nein?"

He flinched. "That hardly seems likely."

Cytamk laughed, unfolding her legs and settling her feet back on the ground. "Never say never, my friend. That was Hawkins just a few years ago. Love does weird things to you." She kicked up one of her feet and clasped her hands together, mocking her last sentence with a grin. "Anyway, give me an answer, an actual yes or no – dinner, you in?

"I suppose."

"You said that before."

He sighed. "Fine. Yes."

"Good, good. See you in 45 minutes then – don't be late, Hawkins will bite your face off." She paused. "Not literally, though she might."

"Ah. Good...to know."

Sometimes he wondered what it would've been like to be an agent in Europe. Other times, the missed opportunity didn't seem like it was very 'missed' at all.


	7. The Coach

"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!"

So it was time for summer camp once again. It was a bit chillier this year than last, with most of the kids wearing sweatshirts or long sleeves along with their gaudy yellow Whispering Rock t-shirts. The crowd of children were busy milling around the parking lot, some clutching onto parents who would've rather not have been there, and others chasing friends and fellow campers around, pestering one another with whatever bits of psychic prowess they had managed to learn.

Morceau Oleander was trying desperately to get their collective attentions, but even a loud voice was nothing when it was up against a buzzing swarm. Sasha was no help – raising his voice wasn't quite a specialty, and at the moment, he was a bit pre-occupied with carefully detangling a new camper who had gotten themselves caught in the basketball net – so it was then up to Milla to use her child rearing skills and get everyone quiet and focused.

"Children – children, if you please -"

The problem with _her _method was that it would've worked wonders had they been amongst non-psychics. Milla was levitating around in swift strokes, sending out little sparks of psynergy here and there, but when there were a dozen children doing much the same, paying attention to the adult woman flying around was difficult. She'd catch the attention of four kids, and they would gape in awe and wonder, but then quickly get distracted by a peer sparking someone's shoelace on fire.

Sasha finally succeeded in unraveling the child, though admittedly the task would've been much easier had the kid stopped flailing five minutes earlier. Sasha turned him upright before slowly lowering the two of them to the ground.

"I would advise not performing such stunts until you have your levitation merit badge," he said dryly to the boy, who had his eyes still clamped shut, fists clenched and raised tightly to his collarbone. He opened one eye upon realizing he was being spoken to, and nodded quickly at the German before scampering off to two other boys.

The number of campers this year had increased by probably 50%; something about being kidnapped and having your brain removed seemed to garner more attention from kids than less. And somehow, through some bureaucratic magic, and probably a lot of late-nights from the not-so-public PR department, parents had been assured that 'no really, the camp was safe'. Sasha wasn't particularly eager at having to look after what amounted to 29 campers – some new, some returning – but when viewed with the prospects of potentially having new test subjects, it wasn't so bad.

There were two key differences between this year and last. Number one was Razputin, who was playing the role of 'peer counselor', acting as the link between the campers and the counselors. The logic was that he would be a friend to the kids and a messenger for the adults. (There was also the desperate plea for a bit of roleplaying – Raz, having experienced summer camp for the first time in a highly unusual way, begged to to be allowed back so he could live through a more usual summer.) The young agent stood proudly at the edge of the parking lot that led into the camp, wearing the same outfit he had been sporting the previous summer but having swapped out his striped sweater for the regulated Psychonauts one.

And the second key difference was related to the rabbit that had hopped out from the forest and planted itself on Sasha's shoe. He looked down at it, it up at him, before it suddenly opened its mouth and let out a loud, commanding yell of a voice that didn't belong to it:

"_LISTEN UP, CADETS!"_

The parking lot instantly hushed, although at least one camper started crying while another two screamed. Sasha winced but otherwise just looked for Milla, hoping to get a reading on her reaction. She sat atop the large tree stump in the center of the parking lot, a rabbit in her lap and an amused smile on her face.

_'Were you scared, darling?'_ came Milla's little astral voice.

_'Not exactly the word I would use,'_ he responded, frowning.

Oleander next decided that a bit of height was probably in order, so he levitated himself a few feet off the ground, his arms folded across his chest. "Now that I have your attention...WELCOME!" His arms flung out, and on cue, the swarm of rabbits all stood on their hind legs. "Today...you embark on the first step...into the UNKNOWN! You are here because you posses unique gifts, and here, in this dojo – this psychic dojo! - you may find yourself on the verge of GREATNESS!"

Milla started clapping like a hummingbird, quite pleased with the new format of the opening speech. Sasha, admittedly, was liking this year's version of Oleander better than the previous models. The kids seemed captivated, the parents split between being nervous and being intrigued.

"Agent Razputin Aquato will now take you on a tour of the camp!" A wave of excited whispers broke out, Sasha catching a few of them being _"True Psychic Tales 618!"_ He could only assume that said issue had something to do with Raz's adventures last summer, since reading the comics (for research, of course) had taken a backseat to work and prep for camp.

Raz leapt into the air eagerly, managing to stay afloat momentarily before slowly wafting back down (he still hadn't mastered hovering solidly yet). "Follow me!" he half-greeted, half-ordered, the campers heeding his beckon and eagerly following after. Their parents stayed a few paces behind, with Milla floating down from her perch and leading up the rear of the group.

The rabbits scampered from the parking lot as the visitors did, leaving Sasha with just their commander for company. He joined the man near the head of the trail, the two watching the group be led up the path towards the main lodge.

Oleander let out a sigh from his nose before grinning. "I've got a good feeling about this year."

"Oh?" Truth be told, Sasha hadn't had a whole lot of time to talk with the coach, but from what he had heard and experienced so far, things were...different...but still very much the same.

There were core facets of a personality that were engrained in a person. That was how they were, and no matter the circumstances, there were traits that were never going to change. It was how one applied their personality that made their behavior be seen as either a positive or negative. Oleander was always going to be loud, forceful, and commanding, but this time, there wasn't a threat of global psychic war. That was good.

Honestly, the man had never seemed _terrible._ He was sort of like that really great uncle who had a weird life outside of normal life but took you to the movies. (This was an assumption Sasha gained through hearing others talk about their relatives and reading books with characters who had better familial relations than him. His uncles weren't of the 'really great' variety, from what he could remember.) There was a reason _he _was in charge of Whispering Rock, nefarious plans excluded. The man liked to teach, to help shape the minds of young psychics. He knew what it was like to not be nurtured by ones parents. He knew what it was like to be alone and an outcast.

Think about it too hard in one direction and it was easy to forget the side of Oleander that was, quite frankly, rather manic. He just had...lots of feelings about things, and it came back to his personality that never changed. Forceful was definitely the accurate descriptor.

"I sense good things, Nein. Good things!"

"I'm interested to see how you'll be teaching clairvoyance to the children." Sasha looked to the ground as a rabbit hopped by, stopping at Oleander's feet and staring up to him with an odd glimmer of loyalty in its eyes.

Oleander scooped up the rabbit, patting it on the head. "Eager to teach it myself! I bet some of those rapscallions are ready to move on beyond the obstacle course. About damn time for a few of them."

Sasha chuckled, reaching into the depths of his pockets for a cigarette but coming up empty handed. He grumbled, squeezing his hand into a fist, but shook off the frustration. "Urgh."

"Somethin' ailin' ya, Nein? Don't tell me you're wussing out on me already, camp's not even started!"

"No," he said, his voice hollow. "I am more than ready for camp, but it may be slightly more taxing for me this year."

Raising an eyebrow, Oleander eyed him suspiciously. "You didn't break your collarbone again, did you? Pulled another Chattanooga?"

If there was a skill Sasha got to exercise more often at Whispering Rock, it was frowning. "I was nowhere near Georgia this past year," he answered dryly. "Switzerland is at fault."

The other man laughed, his gruff burst of five ready to pounce on the words he spoke: "Switzerland was BAD? Of course YOU would have thought that!"

Sasha narrowed his eyes. "Are you implying something, Morry?"

"Nothing out of the usual. Let me tell you, an international mission with three women doesn't sound _bad_ to me."

"Like you would know," Sasha snarked, and was immediately pounced on by the rabbit in Oldeander's arms. "_ACH_!" He swung his leg out, telekinetically ripping the creature off and dangling it mid-air, before glaring at the coach, who was clapping his hands approvingly.

"Impressive maneuver, Havoc!" he called out to the rabbit, who attempted to swing its foot (could it salute? _what_ had Morry been teaching these animals?) but was prevented from doing so by the psynergetic grip. "But you need to sharpen your aim!"

Realizing he wasn't going to get an apology, Sasha dropped the rabbit a few inches above the ground, glaring as it scampered off towards the campfire area. The German turned to the coach, his expression still sour.

"Do I have to add rabbits to the list of deadly animals here?"

"Not if you respect them." Oleander was grinning, clearly delighted at the attack. "Don't worry Nein, no _real_ harm will come to ya if you just act natural. Should be easy for you - I thought nonchalantness was your specialty."

"My specialty is focus and control," Sasha drawled, feeling as if he was giving a profiling report. "And between you and Agents Vodello and Aquato, that is sorely needed around here."

"Lemme tell you something Sasha." Oleander suddenly took on slightly different air, one that was more pensive and even, somehow, restrained. "When you're down there in the mud and the muck and trainin' those kids, you have to be on their level, you hear me?" He began to enunciate his points with a wag from his index finger. "You don't just _match_ their energy, you _exceed_ their energy – you gotta be one of them, but _authoritative_ to them."

This was a prime example of why Morry was in charge of Whispering Rock.

It didn't take away the sting on his thigh from the rabbit bite, but it did ease the scowl from Sasha's face. He inhaled before sighing, sagging his shoulders and straightening himself up (when Oleander started doing one of this 'quiet moment' speeches, it made people subconsciously scoop down to his height).

"I wasn't complaining, merely stating my role," Sasha said with a shrug, habitually reaching into his pockets again and once again returning empty handed. This time, Oleander took notice.

"No cigs?"

"No."

"What happened, you run out again? You've had plenty of time to 'prepare'," (he said the word with added air quotes), "Nein. Or do you want me to cover for you while you make a run into town?"

"I ran out last week," Sasha stated, the sentence pained.

There was a pause before Oleander tilted his head. "Ran out, huh?"

"Yes."

"You 'ran out'...because..."

Ohhhh he was doing the thing. He was doing the 'lead the speaker on so that they'll answer the question for you and you get to make them feel stupid'. This was a game Sasha could play for hours (and he had), but not when there was a schedule to keep to.

"Vodello."

"Vodello?"

"Vodello."

"Startin' to not sound like a name anymore."

"She's been after me to quit for years."

"Not a shocker."

"She made me promise when we were in Switzerland that I would quit whenever the last of my stock was gone. I rationed them as long as I could and ran out the night before coming to the campgrounds. The withdraw was at its worst during all of the prep week."

Before he'd even realized it, Sasha had rambled off the complete story. The words felt like hollow echoes from dreams – had they really happened? Keeping focus was his talent, of course, but the subtraction of one of his vices had made everything feel a bit more ethereal. Choosing to offset this with an even higher rate of coffee consumption helped, but his more frequent trips to the bathroom were not very welcomed additions to his routine.

Another stray rabbit came hopping out onto the parking lot, though taking a clear intent on following the path up to the lodge (was it a spy? was it going to send messages back to Oleander and – oh no, the rabbits were going to drive him mad all summer at this rate). It suddenly gave Sasha an idea.

"Morry, I have a favor to ask."

"Huh? A favor?" Oleander stuck out his bottom lip, brow furrowed. "What's this about, Nein? I ain't gonna start messing with Vodello on your behalf, if that's where you're going with this."

"No. Well – not quite." Sasha pushed his glasses further into his nose bridge, the thoughts of the words he was about to speak filling him with dread. "If Vodello approaches me and starts talking about 'detoxing' or 'cleansing', I'm afraid that in my current state, I might eventually experience enough of a lapse where I'll believe it to be a good idea."

The coach cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Hrm. Okay. And?"

"If such were to happen..." Sasha took a breath, speaking the words as clearly as he could, "I request for one of your rabbits to bite me until I come to my senses."

A silence came between them, and the more time passed, the more Sasha began dreading the response. It was an odd question, he knew, especially coming from _him_. He hated germs, and animals carried germs. The bubonic plague was spread on rats. Lord only knew what those rabbits had on them.

But instead of laughing, or even questioning, Oleander nodded solemnly. "Understood."

Relieved of that burden – should it come to pass – Sasha cleared his throat. "Good."

The coach gave a few more affirmative nods. "I thought somethin' was a bit off about you, couldn't really place it."

"You didn't notice?" He figured maybe the absence of the cigarettes would be enough of a clue.

"Prep week is busy week," Oleander growled in his all-knowing tone. "Not my fault I don't see you. I have a schedule to keep to – every day, up at oh-five hundred hours, and you can be damn sure I'm trying to get sleep while I still can; before those little buggers got here and start havin' their little spats and hissyfits during the night."

True enough. And to be fair, the little mental-Milla in Sasha's head (not literally, just the little voice of the woman he had developed by one, spending far too much time around her, and two, having her _actually_ be in his head now and then) was going on about him 'checking his ego' and whatnot. The world didn't revolve around him, et cetera et cetera. It wasn't his ego, it was just him thinking that something that had become iconically associated with him would be easily noticed were it to be gone. Perhaps that wasn't the case.

"You have any actual bets?"

"Hmm?" Sasha looked down at the other man, in time to see him pick up yet another rabbit (this was going to be a very long, very animal-infested camping session). "Bets on what?"

"How long it takes you to go back."

The German scowled. "Ranger Cruller already got to this. He said three weeks."

Oleander laughed, the boisterous waves making Sasha's eye twitch. "Three? He's got too much faith. I give you 'til the end of this first week with the kids."

The frown deepened, but if this was going to happen, then so be it. "How much?"

"Let's see...how 'bout...I'll do ten dollars and a week of your lifeguarding rounds."

"That's it?"

"Hey." Oleander held up his hands, shrugging. "I'm makin' a wager, I'm not an idiot. Any stakes higher than that and you'll be intentionally trying to sabotage me."

Sasha smirked. "Okay, fair point."

"...So."

"So?"

"Why'd you do it?"

"Give up smoking?"

"No, hike the Himalayas – of _course_ give up smoking, you knucklehead."

That...was a good question. He supposed it originated in Switzerland, where he could blame it on being disoriented from jetlag, or from the pressure that came on having multiple agents gang up on him, or by just having a change of heart along with a change of continent. But in the end, those were simply shells of excuses, none really fitting the answer.

He didn't really know why. Milla had been asking him since almost day one of their friendship – not even their partnership; this was the part that went pre-agency assignment. He had just told her to get used to it, and although she did, she never gave up. What made it different now?

"Eh. Trying it out. Time for a change."

Oleander rolled his eyes. "That's a bull-headed lie if I ever heard one."

Well, at least they agreed on that.

* * *

"Pleeeeeease?"

"Pretty please?"

"Puh-lee-hee-heeeeeeese?"

The sweet, sweet relief of Friday night was being offset by three campers practically attaching themselves to Sasha's ankles. They had seemed to grown fond of him during the course of the intro week, though at this point it was difficult to determine if it was genuine liking or an unfortunate impression left from the True Psychic Tales comics.

"No. Go to the campfire yourselves, you don't need me."

"But we want to hear a story!" pleaded Lorenza, a short girl with bushy brown hair and a penchant for accidentally starting fires.

"I'm sure Agent Aquato will have something to share."

"But we want to hear something from _you_!" was the next baiting from Darien, a stout boy who already had two penalties against him for misbehaving.

"Yeah, you and Agent Vodello!"

Sasha shot his glare at the third child, an overly-freckled girl named Nora. In the dim light, she couldn't see his annoyance, but did take a step back at his action.

"_No_. That's my final answer. Now please." Sasha telekinetically began pushing the children from his table in the lodge, forcing them towards the main doors. "Go to the fire. Have fun." The last two words were added on, probably noticeably forced.

The three gave him one last lingering look of determination before giving up, hopping ahead of his push and shoving the doors open.

"Man..."

"We'll never hear about Budapest now..."

"Geez, way to go Renza..."

"Hey, you came with me!"

He was going to have to talk to Milla about that one of these days...


	8. The Mentor and the Memories

A/N: Hello again my friends, sorry for the delay. I had gallbladder surgery since the time of the last update - something I didn't even see coming. It's been an eventful few weeks, but I hope you enjoy the chapter. Thank you once again for all the means of support!

* * *

Being friends with a mad genius was, well, maddening. And yes, being able to use the term 'friends' was something he was able to do, thank you very much.

At summer camp, there were few places to take refuge during non-teaching hours. Although the days varied, the lessons typically wrapped up at around four in the afternoon, with perhaps an evening activity. But camp was camp, and it was a camp for children mostly in their pre-teens, so keeping them focused for much longer than they did was nigh impossible. Dinner would be served at six, so all other times were up for grabs for the campers.

The obvious answer for hiding was his lab. Sure, that worked, except after the first week, it didn't, since by that point every child had either found it or been told about it. Some of the trees made for good nesting spots, except that once the children were versed in levitation, they of course then competed to see how high they could get. Next were the little cliffs and off-trail paths forbidden entry by the campers (which went largely un-forbidden regardless), then the space beneath the roof of the lodge, and finally, the lake.

The last was only safe during a certain pocket of hours during the day – the morning, when Oleander had the kids in his treehouse. ("_Strategically located command center!_" he insisted on calling it. It was a treehouse, Morry.) But going to the lake in the morning meant getting _up_ in the morning, and also involved a carefully calculated trip to the lodge for coffee. It was a pain.

There was, however, one last place to go – but it wasn't a place gone to unless there was a reason behind it. That was Ford's sanctuary. Located deep underground, slightly dank and damp and glittering with psitanium, it was the _one_ place the campers didn't know about. Somehow.

Trips to Ford's sanctuary only came because he either invited you or there was something to tell him. It wasn't a place you wandered into to kill time – besides, chances were he was out anyway, performing tasks around the camp. Sasha debated back and forth initially the times he had something to report in on. Was it disrespectful to visit the former grand master of the Psychonauts? He had entertained a social circle back then, before becoming the laughing stock of the agency, but had a shattered mind embittered him?

The answer was a very hard, screeching, _"no of course not you scamp!"_ Ford was a spry grandpa of a man with enough energy to scare you but also enough pensiveness to remind one of his age. He liked company, but didn't actively seek it out very often. If anything, the personalities he displayed around camp made him out to be slightly more eccentric, but that was something that had to be forgiven.

Sasha enjoyed the sanctuary, with its peaceful isolation and quiet hum of machines, keeping the air in a rhythm. At the same time, he despised it – not just because it lacked a bit of form – but because of all that it represented. It was once a report center, a location for intel. Now it was, in both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word, a prison for his old teacher, for the man that had paved his path not just into the Psychonauts, but in a new life.

Seeing Cruller being 'okay' with it pained the part of him that he insisted existed to others that denied he was anything beyond methodical (his soul, for future reference). How could a person be okay with staying confined to what amounted to a hole in the ground? Sure, isolation was fine...in moderation. Left to his own devices, Sasha could stay content for days not seeing another human being. But after a while, there came a breaking point. Past a certain threshold, and the particular habits and verbals tics of others began to replay in his mind; bait telling him he was missing certain people and he should just really go see them. Then he'd give in and remember why he wasn't a huge people person.

But again...it was something Cruller had never asked for, nor had a say in deciding. That seemed to be a reoccurring issue with psychics, being jerked around by choices that only had one answer.

"Good to see you hauled your skinny little behind outta bed!"

Sasha sighed at the greeting he received upon entering Cruller's sanctuary. The old man always had some remark to fire off to him, and a good third of them involved his lankiness and tendency to be slightly underweight. It came with the territory of height. At least he wasn't referred to as "sickly-looking" anymore – a common descriptor from his early days in the agency.

"And good morning to you too, Grand Master Cruller."

Ford furrowed his brow and twisted his mouth, annoyed. "I ain't that anymore Sasha, so stop callin' me it."

"I don't see a problem with it." Sasha levitated himself across the bridge and into one of the seats suspended from the intricate machinery in the center of the sanctuary. It creaked with its old life of being a meeting place for the Psychonauts; a safe underground point where the natural psitanium allowed agents to reach out further and work surveillance. Now it went largely unused, with the exception of visits from the counselors. "You still refer to former presidents as 'Mr. President', correct? The same can be applied to you."

Cruller threw his arms out, annoyed. "Pah! Not changing your mind at this point, why even bother. You're as stubborn as a mule, you know that?"

"I've been told various iterations, so yes, I am well aware." No, he wasn't trying to be a smartass, this was honestly a 'thing'. Comparisons to various forms of livestock, buildings, and historical figures when talking about Sasha's unwillingness to yield from the established was a trend among the higher-ups, and had been since his introduction to the agency. He liked to have a plan, and he liked to stick by that plan. He liked to meticulously account and accommodate for every detail, every possible deviance, and every thinkable outcome.

Some might've said that kind of goal was impossible, that there was no way to predict everything. For a while, Sasha chose to think otherwise; he had a penchant for believing that the world fell into patterns, and that given the proper data, everything could be accounted for. It was said that math was the language of the universe, and that with the right amount of number crunching, there was not a single thing that couldn't be accounted for.

A young Sasha had very little to believe in – lack of faith in a higher power, particularly at the cruel hands that had stolen his mother – and so he turned his trust to calculation. Data was irrefutable, he thought. And given the proper knowledge of a scenario, he saw that he was able to overcome obstacles. Everything could be conquered with the proper hypothesis.

"Meh, sometimes I don't see how Milla puts up with you."

There was, however, a problem.

Because as that young Sasha grew up and found himself in the very unusual company of the Psychonauts, he quickly learned that not everyone was like him. That sort of lesson seemed silly to learn when one was considered a legal adult, but it became apparent that scoffing at a lesson because you thought it was beneath you and truly _understanding_ it were completely different things.

Every country's feel of its Psychonauts division was unique, and the way the American branches stood out was their penchant for being eclectic melting pots – something a not-as-young Sasha had to learn very quickly when he met a nun in the lunchline during his first week of training. Sister Tabitha (stunning empath and remote-tracking extraordinaire; always referred to by her religious title and never as 'Agent Giese') suddenly raised a conflict to the young man. Psychics and science seemed to work stunningly together, even if the larger scientific community believed such abilities to be a falsehood. How could religious faith possibly accept it?

"I occasionally wonder how Agent Vodello manages to tolerate me as well."

To Cadet Nein, listening to this seeming-contradiction was at first hard to swallow (and understand; English was difficult to learn at times), what with her saying that she first viewed her psychic abilities as a tribulation sent to her by God. '_They were like headaches at first – a flash of an echo, an instant that I could only remember seeing...It made me question my own sanity.' _But rather than go mad, she fought to understand them, and eventually realized what use they had. The Psychonauts caught wind of her when her locating of a kidnapped child made headlines.

They were something she had never asked for, and yet saw an ulterior motive in them. Rather than suffer, Sister Tabitha had found the strength to remain calm and overcome what would typically drive the weaker-willed to the edge. She had imparted this wisdom to a striving Sasha, who never had the nerve to ask her why she believed in something he did not.

"Milla's a kind and gentle spirit; she finds the good in everyone – even you, grumpy toothpick."  
"When was the last time you saw her out on the field? Agent Vodello can be...well, she can be somewhat like the bears that roam around the camp."  
"Ehhh, she's a mama bear. Nothin' out of line with that."

Such wisdom came to be useful when the cadet became an agent, and that agent found himself being partnered up – a move he hadn't been told could happen. As far as slightly-younger Sasha was aware, agents worked mostly solo, and formed groups if there was a larger mission to tackle. This 'partner' business seemed unusual, and he at first was resistant. Grand Master Cruller just smiled his knowing smile while Sasha grumbled out comments in German. The partnership would break the status quo. It would throw off his calculations. It would introduce a variable to future missions that he could not safely account for. It would completely disrupt his functioning.

But when it came time for him and his partner to meet, every thought in his head dropped off a cliff. Cruller, the cunning old man, had never said _who_ the partner was. And when the partner showed up as Miss Vodello, then, well, he found it hard to form coherent thoughts. She didn't, though. _'Oh my, Senhor Nein. It's so wonderful to see you again.'_

The explanation behind their partnership was one he never understood. Something about being opposites, but being complimentary; showing the signs of working in sync even before they saw how the other performed on the job. Cruller had made some joke about the two of them being the proposed stars of a potential buddy-cop movie, but that made even less sense (Sasha's lack of understanding of movie genres not withstanding).

All in all, it didn't _make_ sense. What was supposed to put him at ease just elevated his anxiety, a trait he had worked so hard on keeping under control. Throwing Milla into the mix not only broke his formula, but his state of existence. Psychic partnerships were not as simple as being squeezed into the same stuffy dorm room and being told to cope and maybe get a pet betta fish to help with the bonding. They required allowing the other into your mind, to know you inside and deeply to the core; to thoroughly _know _you, sometimes even better than you knew yourself. And then you had to do the same to _them_. Psychic partnerships were, to use a very easily misconstrued word, they were...in...ti...mate.

(Ugh, that word. Even thinking it felt like heartburn.)

When the two had first met, there wasn't an inkling of the potential that was to come. Milla was a broken young woman, tasked with both healing and learning while all the while trying to cope with her life. Yet a few short years later, there she was, standing before him all confident and tall and without a hint of the shattered psyche that had once owned her.

"Agent Vodello has a strong spirit, that's certain..."  
"Fightin' spirit you mean, right? _Eh heh heh_."  
"Well...yes. But she's very...tenacious."

Freshly-partnered up Agents Nein and Vodello had to go through a few mental dives with one another before they could be assigned a mission suited for their strengths. Sitting back-to-back on the ground, legs folded (Cruller's idea, saying it was a 'meditative pose' and was a scenario of the 'ain't broken, don't fix it' variety), they bounced back and forth between each other's minds, smoothing the transition with each pass and settling deeper the more rounds they took. It was at first a bit nerve-wracking, and a practice that was approached gingerly, like sticking your foot in a cold pool to acclimate yourself to the temperature. But soon enough, the familiarity was there, and the two found themselves out of the physical world and into the seamless space of their mental scapes.

It was different than head-diving into a patient or a suspect. Everything felt ethereal but somehow tangible, with the world open and complacent. There were a few locked vaults here and there, but even then, there was a _feeling_. Like...acceptance. There was no push-back in Milla's mind, and she later commented that being in his felt oddly cozy ('odd' because...well...cube...). He chose not to comment on her rather garish choice of interior design, instead nodding in agreement to the statement of 'cozy'. He looked around the blinking-light filled room, catching sight of a hopping vault of locked memories, and couldn't help the question that rose in his throat and came out of his mouth.

_'How did you overcome it?'_

She seemed startled at first by the question, but that speck of worry soon melted into a gentle smile. _'Oh darling, you say it like I've won...'_ She closed her eyes and swayed her head, her brow twitching for just a moment. _'I don't see it as winning – I just learned to open my heart and accept it; to forgive myself. The pain is still there, you know. But I knew I couldn't move on if I kept it all locked up.'_

"...Did you know, Ford?"  
"Eh? Know what? Gonna have to be specific, kiddo, you put up too much of a mental block these days for me to peek around yer mind."

Her saying those words struck a chord in him, somewhere deep down. What she said was... human. It meant _they_ were human, despite the extra powers they never asked for. And her admitting that she was still injured from her past also meant that striving for perfection was an unobtainable goal.

Sasha had closed himself off from the idea of there being any force outside of the mathematical patterns of the universe. He still didn't quite believe in that higher power that other agents, Milla included, held a faith in. But he at least began to understand that for their partnership to work, he would have to stop trying to account for everything and learn to place trust in somebody else – especially if that other person was investing the same in you.

"Did you know Agent Vodello and I -"

"Do you want me to say yes?"

Fully in the present moment, Sasha looked up at his mentor, who was raising an eyebrow at him in return. "I thought you said you couldn't read my mind anymore."

"I know, and I can't. That doesn't make you any less of an open book to your old teacher here now. I don't need that tarnishin' my reputation, you know, not anymore than it already is." Ford cackle-snorted at his self-deprecation. "I suggested teaming up you and Milla to the review-board because I liked the balance we got when you two paired up. I was just a tad concerned – you bein' so stoic and all, while she's over there hoppin' with the bees and raining sunshine on the flowers."

"But you pushed it ahead anyway?"

"Well, I knew there was nothing to fear when I saw how you responded to her, _hehoo_."

Sasha slapped a hand to his face, sighing while Cruller laughed. He would've liked to say that he was doing it out of annoyance, but that was only half-true. The other part was hiding the flush he felt coming to stain his cheeks.

He used to think that he was fine, that he was the one well-adjusted to the world of psychics and secrecy, and that he was being a stable rock to his still-fragile partner. But as it turned out, she had helped fix _him; _she had been the pillar of support when his meticulous plans fell short and improv saved the day.

And it was all because of Cruller.

_Dammit._

Even when Sasha thought he was hiding at the camp, he really wasn't. Whether physically out of sight or mentally masked, there was always someone able to track him down or see right through him.

What was the point in even trying to find a reclusive place? For some 'quality time'? What benefit did it even give him? Sanity? What sanity? Not when his mind still raced with all the questions, all the answers, all the possibilities of - of everything.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._


	9. The Partner

On the one hand, there was clearly only one thing to do.

On the other hand, and arm, and shoulder, and torso – head – legs – feet – with all those limbs combined, there was clearly _very many other options_.

Summer had gone, giving way to fall, which also meant Sasha's preferred choice of outfit was no longer put into question. (Sleeves were fine any time of year – protection from the cold, protection from the sun; they were indeed wonderful things.) Autumn at the agency was a bit more calm and relaxed than the others. The problem arose that, what was once a season that put him at ease, was instead now grating on his nerves.

The problem was Cruller. And Cruller liked to talk. So Cruller talked to Oleander, who found it fit to make a sneering joke about it to the campers, who then decided to play the game of 'let's annoy Agent Nein'. The campers then begged for Raz to take up the mantle when Whispering Rock closed its gates for the season, and so there he was, at least once a day in unpredictable places around the headquarters, popping up to ask the question:

"Have you told Agent Vodello yet?"

"_No_," Sasha replied sharply, ducking under the boy as he hung down from an exposed pipe in the ceiling. He levitated himself down and followed after the older agent, who was briskly making his way back to his office.

"Why nooooot?" Raz begged, scootering along on his levitation orb to catch up. "I mean, you've -"

"_Razputin_," hissed Sasha through gritted teeth. He jerked to a halt and stared back at the boy, going so far as to tilt his head down to make his eyes visible, which he narrowed to a glare to emphasize his point.

"Aw, come on." Grinning broadly, Raz popped his orb, sinking to the ground. "There's no _way_ you can lose this one."

Sasha continued his stare, but shifted it to one of being completely unimpressed. "Oh really?"

The grin on the young psychic's face faltered. "Errr...ye-yeah...?"

So then Sasha broke out a smile. "Tell me, Razputin. Why do you believe that?"

The boy tried to regain his grin, but it twitched at the corners the longer his teacher kept up the smile. It was just...it was just so _creepy_...so unsettling...it made his skin clamy as the moments continued to pass. "I – it's – because – the – com -"

"I recall telling you that people are different in real life versus their 2D comicked personas, correct?"

"Well – well yeah..."

"Then I believe you understand where this conversation is headed and what lesson I can avoid saying because you'll fill in the blanks yourself."

With that, Sasha dropped his expression back to neutral and continued on the path back to his office. And although it came with a delay, Raz followed close behind.

But it was strange because it was silent. There was no chatter, no whistling, no humming, no little bits of noise – nothing. The pre-teen agent followed the seasoned one in silence, which was far away from his typical behavior. It would've worried Sasha if he cared – and with how annoyed he was lately, there wasn't much of a chance of that happening.

People didn't behave as easy and predictably as they did on paper, and certainly not fictional recreations of people made to tell sensationalizing stories. He knew what everyone wanted to tell him - _"but in the comics", "but in issue 427", "but according to the Budapest story"_ - they all wanted to tell _him_ things about _his_ life, and the potential it had with _others_ who had _their own life_. It wasn't as easy as the lines on the paper made it to be.

Things were best kept on the casual-professional side of things, that was it. End of discussion.

…

Well. Their friendship was alright. There was almost no way for a psychic partnership to be successful without at least some sort of mutual liking on the part of the agents involved in one. Even the knucklehead not-sisters in Switzerland, despite their bickerings, were pretty much glued at the hip. There was nothing wrong with being friends.

So why did everyone _else_ see it as a problem?

Why was everyone so insistent that the two had to share something more than a platonic relationship? It was utter madness – his boss, his old teacher, his students – was he just the only sane one? Was the whole universe just scheming against him? It was bad enough that the utter nonsense of the True Psychic Tales comics seemed to enjoy playing along with this narrative, spreading it even further beyond his damage-controlling grasp. What was next? Was he going to snap and start having delusions as well?

So what if she called him 'darling', she did that to everyone, it was her speech patterns. So what if she latched onto his arm whenever the two walked together, it was how she kept pace and rhythm...even if she did it to nobody else. So what if she insisted the two always travel together, even on the non-combative assignments? She was being cautious, planning for the worst in case something did go wrong...even if she could handle herself, no problem. But – so what if she checked up on him during the days in the office, and went out with him the most for dinner, and if the two stayed late at each other's apartments without really doing much, and if that one old lady at the Chinese restaurant gave them a couples' discount. So what.

And so what if her smile made his heart develop arrhythmia, and make his lungs descend further in their health. So what if he quite honestly liked her warmth on his sleeve when she latched herself to his arm. So what if he took an earnest note that she was, in fact, quite beautiful and charming, and that her cheerful giggle always made him smile just a little bit too, and that he found her company pleasant even when he was in his worst anti-social mood. So. What.

These thoughts were not new. They had been on constant repeat the past few months, cropping up once a week at first, then creeping into higher frequency, before now bludgeoning into his head about once or twice a day. The Razputin interruptions usually caused them, because he liked to bring to the forefront of Sasha's mind what the inconsequential situation was.

There were other things to do, of course. The agency wasn't held in a state of stasis while he was away for the summer, and upon arriving back, there was always a mountain of paperwork to handle. Camp reports...academy admissions...notes from missed meetings and such...documents to file from the last-minute assignment before camp...it was all compounded into one thick stack of papers awaiting his return. He couldn't afford to be distracted, not in September, the month of mysterious papercuts (how he got them he didn't know; he wore gloves for more reasons than avoiding psychic readings via touch).

Sasha had half a mind to slam his office door shut as soon as he entered, but the half-cleared forest on his desk temporarily blind sighted his other thoughts and made him groan instead. '_Mein Gott,'_ he mentally deflated, squeezing the folder in his hands just a bit tighter. Anyone who thought being a Psychonaut was all action and adventure was delusional. And anyone who thought being a camp counselor was a breeze needed a punch in the face.

But there was little else to do, so he sat himself down and went to work.

Razputin cautiously entered the office a few minutes later, though his presence had been lingering in the doorway for much longer. Sasha tracked the boy's psychic field as he tip-toed slowly from the door to the Lili Corner, quietly sitting himself down. He was forcefully controlling his breathing, doing his best to not exert much noise. But it was strained, and the older agent could tell that the boy desperately needed to take a deep breath, lest he pass out.

"You may breathe, Razputin."

Immediately the young psychic exhaled rather audibly, almost collapsing forward onto the ground. Sasha rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but returned his gaze to the paperwork needing to be done. "Do you need something?"

"Um...no, not really..."

"I see."

Minutes from a meeting on July 10th informed him that there had been a point of heated contention concerning the coffee nook of the second floor, which was resolved peacefully when Agent Buck said he would cover supplies for the remainder of the year...Then there was a point made about the supplies cabinet and why staples were disappearing at an alarming rate...And then finally began talks about the proposed curriculum for the upcoming fall semester. Truth be told, Sasha really enjoyed his job at Whispering Rock because it meant he wouldn't have to be involved in this kind of "planning" - he would just come back, be given his assignments, and be off. It was payback for those who said summer camp was easy.

"Um – actually – Sasha?"

"Yes?" he responded, turning a page in the meeting report.

"I uh – I just wanted to say I'm...sorry. That's...that's all."

"Mhmm."

"I'm - I'm not trying to be mean or anything."

"Mmm."

"I just...we...me and everyone...we just want you to..."

"To what?" Sasha heaved impatiently.

Raz's voice grew small. "...be...happy."

Children could be hard to deal with – all at once they could be insightful and wise, but at the same time, naïve, foolish, and whiny. They were never consistent in their patterns, sometimes understanding one wave of information and completely missing another. Raz was a particularly frustrating case at times, at this point a few months away from turning twelve and having the very loose equivalent of an elementary education (being raised in the circus kind of threw things off). But he was completely genuine in his emotions, whether playing the joker or trying his best to understand others. So right now, even though it felt like he was trying to pull a fast one just to have a good story to tell later, Sasha knew the boy was being absolutely sincere.

Which was...well, it was a refreshing change of pace from the embittered snark of co-workers, to be honest. And while he didn't enjoy the idea of ruining Raz's illusions, it had to be done sooner rather than later.

Sasha took an additional two minutes to finish reading the meeting report ("Agent Robinson is responsible for transcribing this session and getting a copy to Agent Nein, because he gets to play with bears during the summer"), then tossed the papers into a bin under his desk that was serving as the recycling receptacle. He sighed, turning around in hair chair and kicking his foot up to his knee, before folding his hands together. "Razputin, are you happy in your relationship with Miss Zanotto?"

Raz was looking at the floor, confused, before lifting his head and gaze towards Sasha. "Yeah?"

"I'm merely curious."

"Of course I am."

"What is it about her that you like?"

Tilting his head, the boy eyed his teacher suspiciously, but complied with an answer. "She and I like a lot of the same stuff. And she's a super great psychic! And I um..." He tapped his fingers together, averting his gaze and blushing with some degree of embarrassment, "I feel like we could be a really awesome pair of psychics like -" his voice grew small again "- like you and Agent Vodello..."

Now, who was he to say that Raz and Lili merely shared...what was the phrase...'puppy love'? If a psychic partnership started early enough, then, well, those children would grow up, become adults, and most likely remain inseparable. That was how most partnerships worked. The link with the other was so strong that almost nothing could sever it. The convenience of diving into another's mind meant there was very little room for them to hide secrets. It _could_ be done, if the owner of the mind tried hard enough, but the bigger the lock, the more conspicuous it became.

So while for the time being Raz's reasons for liking his girlfriend seemed slightly flimsy, they were certainly valid. And it stood to reason that because _he_ was happy with his relationship, he wanted others to be happy in their own ways as well. _And_, by revealing that he and Lili were planning to become an 'awesome pair of psychics' like Sasha and Milla, it stood to reason that Raz projected his and Lili's relationship onto their older idols.

It certainly made sense. It just wasn't correct.

"Razputin, while I am certainly...glad...that you and Miss Zanotto are flourishing in your relationship, I have to insist that not everyone is like you two."

"Um – well duh..."

"And while I understand the status of me and Agent Vodello's relationship is a popular subject amongst _your_ peers, _our_ co-workers, _our _boss's family – I insist you find another topic to converse about, and spread that. The two of us are strictly friends and work partners."

Raz looked back up at him, his brow furrowed. "Why?"

For someone usually proud of calculating every outcome of a situation and his ability to remain in control, Sasha was surprised to be taken aback by the question. 'Why'...it was a simple word, but held an immense weight and complexity.

"Why what?" he scrambled. It was pathetic.

"Why is it, y'know, 'strictly'? There's not a rule against it or anything."

"No, there isn't, but it's not -"

Sitting up on his knees, Raz pecked his head forward and pressed on. "Agent Vodello doesn't have a secret boyfriend, does she?"

"No, I -"

"Did she – like – reject you?"

"No – wait – _Flüche!_" He quickly avoided saying a word best not spoken around eleven-year-olds, but at the same time essentially convicted himself.

Raz leapt to his feet. "AHA!" he exclaimed, pointing at the older agent with far too much enthusiasm. "So you've just never said anything!"

Scowling, Sasha stared back at him. "Said anything about _what_? There is nothing to say!"

With a grin and a slight cackle, Raz shook his head. "Yeah there is – you just admitted it. Lili was right about how to lead you into a confession."

How could he avoid digging the hole any deeper? He couldn't. He'd hit the water table and would soon be drowning in regret if he said any more words. Instead he decided to mentally curse the Zanottos for now apparently not only being good at digging out information, but passing the technique onto others. His next decision was to ignore the mountain of paperwork still left to do, stand up, push his chair in, and go for a walk around the office.

Sasha left without saying a word. If Raz couldn't work out what was going on, then, well, he had just lost a bet to a boy who hadn't even been born when it started.

* * *

There was a problem with routine, and it was thus: if he wanted to break from it, he couldn't, because there had to be a reason. And he didn't have a reason.

Thursdays were Chinese food nights. Try as he might to convince himself the food was greasy, unhealthy, and better left alone, Sasha couldn't get past that it was delicious. Who cared about the consequences, he was a psychic secret agent. He deserved to clog his arteries once a week.

And really, being away from civilization for three months of the year just made the returning month all the more sweet. Whispering Rock food became kind of boring after a while, even when Chef Cruller tried to vary it up. Despite all the jumbled anxieties in his head, Sasha could at least look past them with the short-term goal of obtaining Chinese food. Tonight was just going to be a bit harder, and it wasn't helped by Milla reinforcing everything he suddenly found himself questioning.

Why _did_ she call him 'darling'? And why did she always latch onto his arm? (Emphasis on the 'always'.) Did their nights in each other's apartments, filled with nothing, mean something else? Was their partnership not just restricted to business...was it...supposed to be something else?

This was it. This was the breaking point. Sasha was sinking into the pit of insanity, his fingers barely grasping onto the edge of reality anymore. He could hear the voices of everyone else, taunting him from the bottom of the pit. _'C'mon Agent Nein! We were right all along!'_

"Sasha darling? Are you okay?"

His vision re-focused itself, and Sasha suddenly realized he had been half-punching himself in the jaw. He quickly adjusted his pose and cleared his throat, looking across the table to Milla. She was resting her head on the back of her hand, her pinkie flicking back and forth on her bottom lip.

...Guh.

"A bit overwhelmed," he replied, marveling at how many situations that word best fit for him at the moment. "But...fine."

"Paperwork?"

"Essentially."

"Ah yes...that's about all I've had to look forward to coming into the office." Milla raised her hands up in a lazy shrug. "Papers, papers, papers – they act as if our leaving is a burden on them, but then nobody else will take the job. What are we to do?"

"Punch them in the face."

"What?"

"It was just an idea."

Milla shook her head, smiling. "Now now..."

"I didn't say it was my _best_ idea."

"There would be too many people," she mused before breaking out giggling. "Sasha! That's rude, you shouldn't be saying those kinds of things."

He shrugged. "I'm not serious about it. Besides, I have other things to concern myself with."

"Oh?" Milla was looking at him, amused but skeptical. "What is it now?"

Her skepticism was justified – he couldn't say 'it's a mission' because, well, she obviously went on all the missions he did. Whatever was 'concerning' him most likely concerned her too.

It was awfully painful to admit how true that sentence was.

"Razputin – nothing out of the ordinary, he was just being his usual self today."

"Was he bothering your important reading time?" she quipped sarcastically.

"In a way." Jamming his fingers near his eye socket, he continued, "I feel like I should give him some sort of difficult task to try and circumnavigate. Something that'll keep him busy for a while."

"Like what?"

"Maybe...tame the bears at Whispering Rock..."

Milla rolled her eyes. "He's a curious boy, you can't stop him from asking questions."

The better word was 'interrogating'. Sasha sighed, stealing his glance back to Milla rather than the bottle of soy sauce at the table across the aisle, and he just – couldn't – help it. He couldn't fight the smile that came to his face, however slight it was. The woman just radiated a certain comfort and warmth that worked its magic on everyone.

So how was he supposed to bring this up again?

"Do Razputin or Miss Zanotto ever visit you?"

"Hm? Well – probably not as often as they see you, though Lili seems to be seeking me out a lot more within this past year than she used to."

"Ah."

Milla chuckled. "She asks a lot of questions about her and Raz and all these things that a young girl like her shouldn't be worrying about. But the two of them are so cute."

"I suppose."

"Oh hush, you would admit it too if you weren't so Mister Serious all the time."

"Maybe. It's just that Razputin frequently asks me for advice on the same subject, one that I have little knowledge or interest in."

"Interest?"

Sasha winced internally. This was it. He'd already ruined everything. His grasp on the edge of the pit was strengthening, and he was pulling himself back into the regular world of reality. Well. So long. It had been an interesting, if very unreal, prospect.

"I mean, I've always known you to be very..." Milla was fishing for a word that didn't out-right say 'cold-hearted' and 'distant', "...grounded, Sasha."

Eh. That wasn't so harsh.

"But I always thought..."

When her pause dragged on for too long so as to make a smooth sentence, Sasha raised a curious eyebrow. "Thought...what?"

Milla quickly looked down at the napkin container of their table. "Oh – nothing."

So they fell into another silence, one that caused Sasha's foot to stumble on its climb, its resting ledge crumbling and falling down into the pit. A roar erupted from those below, and his fingers, cinched tightly and burning at the joints, began to slip once more.

_Think. Think think think think. _What would someone a whole lot more clever and smooth say in a situation like this?

"...Milla."

"Uh – yes, what is it darling?"

"Do you ever feel guilty about getting a discount here?"

"No, since we're -"

She stopped herself, but shot her gaze to him, her brow furrowed, her cheeks puffed in annoyance. "Sasha!"

But that was it. Too late. As his grip gave way and he fell into the pit, he couldn't resist – he couldn't help the grin that soon overtook his smile; one that produced a chuckle which turned into a quiet laugh. He slid his hand over his forehead, sinking in his seat while he lowered his head and sat, relieved and amused.

It wasn't like it was particularly funny, and if anything, it was the sort of amusement that came once again at his own expense. It had been so simple and easy – and using words he didn't feel the need to scrub his mouth out after speaking them.

"Sasha Nein, I swear, if you don't -"

"Sorry," he hastened out quickly, lifting his hand only to see her still looking immaturely indignant. "It's just – we get a discount because the manager thinks we're...you know."

Milla folded her arms across her chest. "No. I'm not saying it."

He frowned. "What? I – no."

"Why not? It isn't in your interests, is that it?" She couldn't keep the serious act forever, and indeed, a hint of teasing had crept into her voice.

"It – it isn't that..."

"'I'm Sasha Nein'," she imitated, though it was rather poor. "'My interests are science, frustrating my co-workers, science, coffee, and -'"

"- you."

He slapped a hand to his face immediately after shooting out the word. It was just – the feeling of the moment and – oh dear, he had certainly fallen into the pit of insanity.

"...Really?"

Nope. He wasn't going to respond. He was frozen in his pose, although his face felt like he had accidentally decided to ignite pyrokinesis from every single one of his pores.

"Sasha," she snapped, "Look at me."

Ugh, the schoolmarm voice. He complied with just a moment's hesitation, though with his hand still covering half his face.

"Is that really true?"

"Uh...well...yes."

Closing her eyes, Milla sighed. "Oh Sasha...you know, if you had told me from the start, then it would have saved you a lot of grief over the years."

"...How did..."

She clicked her tongue. "Darling," she insisted, "I am your partner. If I didn't know, then I wouldn't be very good at my job."

...Well, there wasn't much arguing with that.

* * *

Sasha couldn't sleep.

And it wasn't over the fumble he had made when the two departed from the restaurant – he'd never kissed somebody before, it wasn't his fault – but over what everything now meant.

The next day was still Friday, meaning another day of work before he could hide away for the weekend. He could keep a secret, but he had a feeling that by 9am tomorrow, everyone would know. Milla was a bright little chatterbox when she wanted to be, especially at news she considered 'delightful'.

Everyone had been right. _Everyone_. His boss, his old teacher, his students – his boss's family, his co-workers, that old lady at the Chinese restaurant – _they'd all been right_. How long had he decided to be oblivious to this?

It wasn't his fault that his partner played along, that she was content with it – if anything, it seemed that she thought that what they had was a relationship enough. He couldn't be blamed for it.

But he could, and he did place himself at fault.

As the storm rolled away and the calm came in, Sasha found the rational side of him coming back to the forefront of his mind. Everything would be fine. Give it a few days, and the world would stop feeling like it revolved around him. Well, them.

It was a strange thought, 'I have a girlfriend'. It sounded a bit tacky for a man of his age – not that he was _old_ – but at the same time, it just didn't sit right in his mind. Milla was...more than that. The phrase didn't do her justice.

"She is my partner, she is my friend, she is..."

That word.

He didn't want to say that word.

It caused his throat to tighten and his acid reflux to kick in. It just felt like all sorts of...ugh.

"_Sie ist...meine...Liebe_."


	10. The Father

A/N: Welcome to the finale. A huge thanks to those who have been here for the long-haul, and a thumbs up if you're binge-reading this in one go. I really hope you enjoy.

* * *

"...Ugh."

"What's wrong?"

"Airline tickets are expensive when your employer isn't paying for them..."

Lunch was an eat-in-the-office affair that day in October. Sasha held his sandwich in his left hand, his right currently occupied with scrolling through choices of travel websites. He had a lofty goal to fulfill, and had at first started with the 'no matter what' sort of mindset. But as the numbers fluctuated and remained in the high zone, he began to question if it was still a tangible idea.

It wasn't a 'good' idea, that was for sure. It had never been that, despite Milla's insistences to the contrary. But it didn't have to be a good idea – it just had to be one so he could get the baggage off his back.

"When was the last time you bought your own plane tickets, darling?"

"Approximately never."

"Oh dear." Milla shook her head, diving into her tupperware container for more of whatever her leftover dinner-turned-lunch was. "Then of course you'd be in for sticker shock."

"No wonder they make those five nimrods drive around in a bus..."

Sasha received a rap on the head from Milla's fork. He flinched, but continued his searches, just hoping he wouldn't be wiping a noodle out of his hair later.

"You know, if you had booked this a few months ago – like, say, before summer – then you'd probably be having an easier time."

Relinquishing his hand from the mouse, Sasha took an aggressive bite from his sandwich, chewing through it with more emotion than needed. He side-glared at Milla. "This wasn't a _concern_ at that point in time."

She giggled, though it had an edge of darkness. "It could've been."

"_Yes_, I _know_, I'm _aware_." Sasha hunched his shoulders and took three more successive bites out of his sandwich, said food probably wondering what it had done to deserve such a cruel fate as to be eaten with passive-aggressive anger.

Milla smiled, though her gaze was centered on her food so it appeared an odd reaction. "Why do you call it a 'concern'? What are you concerned about?"

Sasha was mid-opening of his mouth to take another bite when she spoke. He paused, slammed his jaw shut, and slouched in his desk chair, also deciding to set the remainder of his sandwich down on the napkin folded out for it. "_You're_ not the concern," he said quietly, knocking his head into his fist while glancing at the computer monitor before him. "I just now have _cause_ for concern."

Plane tickets for Germany were expensive.

Long ago, back when he first made his way to America, Sasha had figured he would never go back home. After a few years, he had flaked a bit on that declaration, which started when he began writing the occasional letter to his father to maintain the status of 'alive'. The contents of those letters mainly consisted of random snippets of what was going on in his life; Sasha liked to think that he wasn't completely lying. He _did_ work for a government agency, meaning he couldn't _really_ go around sharing stories of his missions. It was just that there was very little else to say – not a whole lot happened outside of work, which, honestly, consumed a great deal of his life anyway.

Whenever he thought of going back, a little theatrical production sprang up in Sasha's imagination. He could just see it – returning home for the first time in ages, with an accent betraying his native tongue but a haircut that hadn't changed at all. He had a few things to say...first off would be "I'm a psychic", and explaining all that went into that...secondly would be "speaking of psychics, this is my something-something, Milla Vodello"...and then third...well...third would be a very simple one: "I'm sorry."

Apologizing for running away would be a good place to start, but in the grand scheme of things, Sasha had slowly realized over the years that he had a lot more to apologize to his father for. By leaving, he had abandoned him. The man no longer had a family; his wife was dead and his son had fled for seemingly no reason. How much grieving had he go through? How did he continue on with his life, doing nothing but cobbling shoes and lamenting his losses? What did he even look forward to before Sasha began sending him those letters? Did he even look forward to those? Did he...did he even want to see his estranged son again?

The next thing he knew he was breathing louder, the air sucked in between his teeth and a cold numbness sweeping up his arms. But soon, Milla's hand was on his shoulder, her other arm making its way around his collarbone while she nestled her head onto his other shoulder.

"Shhh..."

He wasn't sure what it _was_, and even though the technique seemed better suited for soothing a scared child, Sasha still felt comforted by her actions. He closed his eyes to shut out the visuals of numbers and names, instead repeating a mantra to himself: '_nothing has happened, nothing is set in set, nothing is unchangeable_'.

After a prolonged spell of silence, he opened his eyes again, glancing down at the multi-colored fabric of Milla's sleeve, and sighed, sinking further into his chair. The chill was beginning to fade, but his heart still raced. It felt weak, and just a little pathetic, but it was all he could do to merely clutch onto her arm.

He completely accepted that having a psychic partner meant trusting them. That was fine. But that didn't change the fact that he, Sasha Nein, was not a person one would call 'touchy-feely'. The idea of contact in general didn't bother him, but the idea of a touch that went beyond a handshake or a pat on the shoulder was the type that made his stomach crawl. As time wore on, he had unfortunately gotten used to things like, say, the more emotional academy students wanting to hug him (that usually came with tears on their end; it was a facet he never quite understood), or the campers poking and prodding him because they just sort of felt like doing it that day. He could...deal with that. The hugs he gave back were stiff, the pats on the head to youngsters a bit awkward, but that was par the course.

This, though...Sasha had never realized it, but Milla's habit of latching herself to his arm just never seemed to bother him. It was okay. It worked. It was never odd, or uncomfortable, or annoying. It just...was. The difference between then and now was that he could...hang on to her back.

And when he thought about it, he figured it was probably something he could've done all this time, but never felt it his place to do so. He could've played up the acts a bit more when they were undercover, rather than appearing like the cold stoic to his lovely female companion. Of course, his 'acting' never went much beyond being 'the neutral one'; occasionally he got to branch out and play up tropes commonly used with Germans in fictional tales (like being the mustache-twirling villain, or an uptight designer, or a mad scientist – wait...), but for the most part, Milla covered the spectrum of emotions. She was quite the talented actress, although only called on the ability when it came to work.

Even now, there were still some things he had a bit of trouble getting over. Like, uh, kissing. That was a good place to start: the kisses between two people. Their first one (well, first intentional one (let's not talk about it, those stories were embarrassing)) happened in a rush of emotions that completely shut off the rest of his brain. That's what emotions did when they were highly concentrated, and they were a double-edged sword that way. Yes, in that evening, Sasha had spit out his feelings in an obtuse way and Milla had reciprocated, putting several years of denial and half-angst to rest.

But once those emotions wore off, his scrutiny kicked in. '_Bakterein!'_ he shouted to himself. '_Aber Milla!'_ was the response. The problem with a kiss was that it went far beyond the personal boundaries he was so fond of. It was close; it was the exact definition of 'intimate' that others liked to snicker at when he used it to describe psychic partnerships. '_Aber...es ist Milla.'_

And then, of course, to further compound and complicate the issue, there came the echo of a voice in the back of his mind: _"You ever plan on becoming a father, Nein?"_ He flinched then, and flinched now; something his partner took notice of.

"Are you alright, darling?"

Sasha adjusted his neck to look at her properly, straining to keep his thinking straight. She was still in her 'caretaker' mode, although the effect of being in a relationship meant that she felt the need to kiss his cheek. Even with the argument of '_Es ist Milla'_,a single shiver ran through his body. For her sake, he tried to get the corners of his mouth to twitch upward, but it was rather far from being a smile.

He had a thought. But before he could verbalize that thought, he eyed the corner of his office and telepathically shut the door – he didn't need _anyone else_ hearing what he was about to ask – before looking back at his partner. (Still hesitant on the word 'girlfriend'; it continued to feel too juvenile to him.) "Milla..."

"Yes?"

Suddenly becoming very interested in her wrist, Sasha stared at the strip of skin exposed between her sleeve and her glove. "Have you ever thought about...having...children..." His voice trailed off at the end, not even remembering to add an inquiring tone to the sentence.

Milla, though, giggled. She pulled her arms away from his shoulders, swinging around to sit on the side of the desk facing him as opposed to her previous perch of behind, and rested her head in her hand. "Having children? In general or with you?"

Sasha covered the lower half of his face with his hand, though knew she could see he was turning beet red regardless. She giggled again, though her grin was a bit too mischievous. "I know what you mean, sweetie – yes, I have; I don't see any reason not to." Her eyes became soft as a memory came back to her, but as soon as it came, it went, returning to its devious expression. "However..." She shook her head, _tsk_ing. "My parents would not be happy without at least a ring on my finger, and neither would this girl."

Sasha bit his tongue, hardly ready for such a remark. He glanced at her and scowled, though he knew it looked rather weak when coupled with his childish embarrassment. So instead he just frowned and tried his best to look insulted or – some sort of emotion that displayed he was not thinking of doing what she had implied he would.

"Milla," he said in his best attempt to calm himself, "I'd like to think of myself as a gentleman."

She, of course, laughed. "Sasha darling, I know what you'd _like_ to see yourself as – a gentleman and a scholar, is the phrase? - and I do think you are, for the most part." Her laughter, at once teasing him, toned down into a kind smile. "I think you're a gentleman. Been a lovely one to me so far."

"A month isn't much to go on..." Sasha mumbled. He already had enough expectancies from other people about what he was to do when in an actual relationship ('actual' being a word lobbed at him a lot), and that was without even thinking of how the other half of said relationship was taking everything. He assumed she was happy? Nothing in her behavior seemed to suggest otherwise? And he was rather acutely aware of these types of things? Or...so he thought...

"A month? It's been much longer than that. Years." She paused. "Ten..?"

He squinted his eyes in thought. "That long?" They'd been partners for ten years? Had time really gone by like that? Ten years ago was an awfully long time to have spent with a person, and it seemed Milla was counting that in their 'dating' quota. So ten years unofficially, one month on record. The staggering differences between the two hit Sasha in the head a bit hard, and he once again had to grumble out a 'yes, I know' to the teasing voices.

"Why are you asking about children, darling?"

Suddenly he remembered the task at hand:

_'Vati._'

Why was he thinking about becoming one when he was worried about being a disgrace to his own?

Looking back at his computer screen, Sasha let out a sigh, tapping his finger into his temple while he cradled his cheek in his palm. "Contemplation hits at certain moments."

Milla rolled her eyes, reminding him that lying to her, or at least, trying to brush things off, was a fairly useless maneuver. "You're worried about your father, sweetie. Why haven't you ever seen him?"

Sasha closed his eyes. "You, of all people, should know why."

"I know why you avoid him, but really, I don't understand why you haven't made amends." At the sigh she received, Milla gently chided, "He's your _father_, Sasha...do you really think he doesn't want to see you? That he doesn't love you?"

She knew. Of course she knew.

"You've heard them. You've seen them."

"I know they're there. But I don't believe them." Sliding off his desk to get closer, Milla took his free hand and held it in both of hers, squeezing it tightly. "You can't believe their words, darling. You do that...you do that, and who knows how long they'll have you."

At first, running away from home didn't bother him. All the work he had to do to merely survive was exhausting, but it kept his mind from wandering. It was only later, when he was in the custody of the Psychonauts, did he have time to think about the journey he had taken and what he had left behind. In those days, there were few people to interrupt his thoughts, and fewer who understood his words – though it wasn't like he could comprehend theirs either.

He sometimes wished he couldn't understand the voices that eventually crept into his head. _'Why did you leave? You left him all alone...Herr Nein der Schuster; his wife stolen from him, abandoned by his only son...Day in and day out, all he has left to do is make those shoes, but who is to say he won't one day take the hammer to his own head?_ Stop... _'What would drive a boy to leave his father like that? Why would he leave the single bit of family he had?' _You don't understand... _'He grew old and alone with nothing for years, until finally letters came...but is that really good enough? Pieces of paper with false words scribbled on them?' _It's not... _'That man must despise his son – to be cast aside by one's own flesh and blood, whom he raised single-handily...'_

The Nightmares were shrewd with their words, that was for sure.

"...You've listened to them, haven't you?"

"Listened," Sasha emphasized, glancing at Milla, who still had his hand clenched in hers. "I've listened. I haven't believed."

She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized his expression. "Don't lie to me." Her gaze punched him in the lungs; something of a mix between cold anger and scolding. Part of that might've actually been psychic pressure, most of it was simply the effectiveness of her eyes.

He managed to keep his vision straight, but could feel his own eyes watering from not wanting to lose their staring contest. The Nightmares, they were just...voices in the back of his head, the kind everyone had. Of course. They were just the doubts and pressures of life that came about, there was no reason to feel they were actually true, to feel that they really were influencing his thoughts...

"Maybe...I did...once or twice..."

"Oh Sasha..." Milla released a sigh, her hands still grasping his tightly. Sasha lowered his brow before some instinct in his head kicked in, forcing his other hand off his face and on top of their collective pile. He wasn't _exactly_ sure what to do in this situation, but he had enough grace to know that the gesture wouldn't hurt, as it would most likely provide comfort to his...girlfriend.

That word really was tacky.

"They're your dark thoughts, they're the worst of your soul, they're everything you fear and hate coming back to rob you of the good things." With every word, Milla lowered her head, until finally her forehead was resting on their hands. "Sasha," she murmured quietly, "I don't want to see you be afraid of your father because of the demons in your heart."

If he were something more of an emotional man, Sasha perhaps would've started crying. It, after all, suited the moment. But...it didn't suit him. Instead, he took a breath and analyzed the scene, his mind racing with hundreds of scenarios for each passing second. After a break of five, a surge of words sprouted from the cockles of his mentalscape, accompanied by a rush of feelings that he was sure were going to place him in another awkward-in-retrospect situation.

"_Danke schön, meine Liebe_," he managed to say, which caused Milla to raise her head until she was once again staring at him, though this time without a contest attached. Her gaze made his throat tighten – it was kind, sincere, somehow more loving than he'd seen before – and he barely managed to speak his other intent: "I'll be fine with you."

* * *

International travel was still awful.

Long flights that spanned various timezones led to awkward days of being ready to sleep at 2 in the afternoon and the body's unwillingness to eat dinner when it clearly yelled out for breakfast. Unfortunately, being 'international secret agents' meant they were rather used to this. By the time Sasha and Milla left the airport and were making their way through snow-lined roads, it was past 5am and time to make up for lost sleep – so coffee it was.

The journey to _Flughafen Frankfurt am Main_ had begun first off by the need to request an extra day off. Zanotto had raised an eyebrow but then gave in to his urge to mercilessly tease Sasha, who muttered his thanks while being happy of having the next two weeks off work. (Well, for now. If a major mission popped up? Then back to the grind.) If being in a relationship had taught him one thing, it was that other people became more obnoxious. That might, however, just have been the special case for him.

Unlike his previous airport experience to Europe, this one went off without a hitch – and a bit more enjoyably to boot. True, a pre-dawn flight wasn't ideal, but it became less of an issue when there was a lovely lady at your side, and not just out of professional obligation. About twenty minutes after the fact, Sasha had registered that Milla wasn't latched to his arm, but holding his hand as they made their way through the airport with other travelers (a decent amount due to the time of year and ever-present business meetings). Although his brain initially pitched a fit, it was quickly punched into submission by drowsiness that drifted into pleasant euphoria.

Then there was the actual flight. Oh, it was nice. Just a hair beneath 'comfortable' as far as the physical amenities went, but when he woke up from his first nap, he was greeted by a warm weight on his right side. It was Milla snoozing quietly, one arm hugging herself, the other resting under her cheek and against his chest.

Maybe he could get used to this sort of thing after all.

Sasha had sent his father two letters since booking the tickets: both rather succinct, with one stating when he was to visit (with a scribbled note of '_mit meiner Freundin, Frau Milla Vodello'_, a line added at Milla's request), and a second meant to serve merely as a reminder that yes, the two were, in fact, still coming. He had received one, and only one, reply, the first reply ever from his dad: '_Ich bereite das Gästezimmer_'_._

Which meant things were looking...positive.

"This is so beautiful, darling," his partner murmured, her head against the door window. "It's like a fairy tale. A village hidden away in the snow-capped lands..."

"Sure," was Sasha's grunt of a reply. He had never driven the roads around his hometown, and his grip on the steering wheel would've shown white knuckles if it weren't for his ever-present gloves, now particularly suited for the weather. The directions and the map were engrained in his mind, studied down to the bends in the road, though Milla served as back-up navigator with a printed-out sheet of the routes in hand. He had been planning this day in meticulous detail, rehearsing what he was to say, miming out what words and questions his father would have. When he exhausted himself of that, he would obsess over the airline itinerary, then a map of the area, and finally he would just crumple under his own stress and question why he had given up smoking.

Soon enough the quiet roads gave way to a town, hazily familiar buildings mixed in with a few of modern construction. In much the same way he had changed but remained relatively the same, his boyhood home had done some growing but not dramatically so. The streets were still laid out the same, and after a few turns and some careful maneuvering, Sasha was staring at the storefront he had fled from all those years ago.

The car was still running to keep the heat on, which was probably more noise than the block was used to at a little past 6 in the morning. Milla peered out the window curiously.

"You lived here?"

"The business is in the front space. The rest of the building...was our home." He paused, unsure if the tenses were correct or appropriate, but instead sipped the last of the coffee from his paper traveling cup.

"It's very charming," Milla continued, and he couldn't tell if she was desperate for words or simply tired. Seeing as how she could lie with more conviction than that, Sasha chose to interpret it as the latter. And indeed, 6am made him feel like a lead weight – lack of sleep before they left the US, coupled with periodic naps in-flight, didn't make for well-rested agents.

Propping his hands on top of the steering wheel and his head on top of them, Sasha stared at the building with a hollow, empty mind. This was it. This was the day he had been avoiding for...the longest time. Not even the dark voices of the Nightmares clawed at his thoughts. There was a stark feeling of nothing sitting on him, mixed with a sense of...nervousness? But not the kind mixed with dread, rather, the kind that came when one was to take a test, or meet an authority figure for the first time, or flunk an interview. It was the rational kind of nervous...or at least, that's what he was saying to rationalize it.

When a channel in the hollow empty space opened, Sasha quickly turned off the car, unbuckled his seatbelt, and flung open the driver's side door. He had just made it to the sidewalk when the _thunk_ of closing the door brought him back to full awareness, leaving him left to stand and watch staggered breaths escape from his mouth in the form of steam. Milla was out and standing in front of him quickly thereafter, balancing on one foot and leaning forward towards him with her eyebrows raised.

"You're nearly there, sweetie, it would be a shame to stop now."

He didn't respond – couldn't, as a matter of fact – and instead began to shake. Short, shaky spouts of steam escaped his chattering jaw, and even with all the forces in the world pushing him forward, there was just that one wall of hollow nervousness blocking his path. There were so many words falling into place, but none could even make it to his throat, every attempt resulting in a quiet stutter that just produced more steam. He swallowed and jammed his eyes shut, feeling all the more like the overwhelmed and pathetic child he had been when he ran away all those years ago.

As he tremored in darkness, his young, frightened self coming back, he slowly began to feel something: dread. It was coming, rising from the pit of his stomach. This was – this was a disaster. He had made it so far, and was so close, but last-minute hesitation and the brutal reality of how _real_ it suddenly was brought back the childish fears he thought he'd put to rest.

There he was. Sasha Nein, international secret agent for the Psychonauts. Described as many things in his lifetime, but usually one of three would be used: _brilliant, rational, stoic. _He was the man revered as an ideal agent; sometimes a headache to those around him, but always relied on to get the job done. Young and old psychics alike idolized him, were motivated by his story to pursue their own mental talents. There were therefore three things he wasn't allowed: to make a mistake, to have a bias, and to be afraid.

Of course he broke those three – he _was_ human, despite some snickering beliefs. But such deviations were usually minor, and he typically held true to his perceived persona. He was rather proud of that fact, actually. He was consistent, and consistency meant stability meant control.

Except for right now.

Right now, he was frozen, and not from the temperature, or even from the Nightmares. It was just his own self. Everything was on lockdown, the communication between his mind and body severed. And just when he began to grind his teeth and shake his fists, a sudden warm little sprite appeared in the bleakness of his terrified mind – small in comparison to everything else, but still comforting, warm, inviting.

The visitor was soon coupled with a physical pressure on his shoulder blade, and then another on the middle of his spine. Then came a voice from somewhere...it might've been real, or maybe it was just inside his mind...but it was a voice nonetheless, speaking words he couldn't comprehend but somehow understood: "_Você vai ficar bem comigo_."

Five words. Five words in a language he didn't know turned everything still. The quiet sounds of early morning village life made themselves known, but for once, there was nothing going on in his mind. Just...peace. Sasha raised his arms, his body re-synced with his brain, and returned the hug to Milla. It was light at first, his usual approach to the physical exchange, but then his muscles tightened and he squeezed her closer.

It was like a movie, one of those really terrible ones Milla had always enjoyed long before the two started having those things known as 'date nights'. Usually the couple would've been kissing in the rain (which sounded rather uncomfortable), or the man would spin the woman around as they laughed against a sunset. Those scenes made his stomach crawl.

He might've felt slightly hypocritical at the present moment, but he...really didn't care. Milla was rather close to his height, so even if he wanted to progress the 'movie' scenario, it would've been hard to do so. There would be no spinning, or lifting in the air in general, and thankfully no rain. Sasha instead settled on something he was not quite sure he could pull off but damn well felt like doing, and lightly kissed her forehead.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, his nose pressed against her hairline. A moment passed before she giggled into his shoulder.

"That's what friends are for, darling."

Being calm was one of his strengths, despite his previous terror, and it came in handy in this current situation. He wasn't worried about his relationship with Milla. He wasn't afraid of anything...happening, really. It was a secure partnership that had naturally led into something else. Some might've been worried when their significant other said 'friends'. What was the harm in that, though? And right now, he needed the wonderful hybrid that was his..._Liebe_.

(It really was the best phrase to use.)

Milla released herself from their hug first, turning on her heel while grabbing his wrists and _thump_ing into him so as to settle her back into his chest while crossing his arms over her torso. The action was so smooth that Sasha had blinked slower than she had moved. "We should get this show on the road, don't you think?"

For a brief second, there was a blip of a thought – '_this is really comfortable, I don't particularly want to move' –_ but priorities sorted themselves out. Sasha slipped one of his hands into one of hers, using the other to encourage her to spin and unravel from their standing cocoon set-up. With a few more steps – two to the side, one at a diagonal, and a final one forward - he was leading the way past the sidewalk, up the alley next to the Nein establishment, and coming to a halt at the back door, one he hadn't seen since he was a bit shorter. Things were still somehow the same, although he was deliberately avoiding the bit of green in the backyard with the sprawling willow tree.

Sasha inhaled, then sighed, lowering his gaze to the concrete as he lifted his fist to the door. There was no turning back at this point, but moving forward was a difficult thing to start. As the seconds ticked by and his arm remained still, Milla picked up the slack and gently squeezed his hand.

"You can do it, and you know it."

Exhaling and lowering his arm at the same time, he managed to produce a muffled pound on the door, but needed another hand-squeeze of encouragement before repeating the action in a quicker successive series, his pulse increasing with every knock. After what felt like a sufficient number, he brought his arm back down to his side and listened.

At first there was silence. But then - a chair creaked, its legs scraping against the floor. A slow set of feet lumbered their way closer to the door, and Sasha thought he was going to take Milla's fingers off with how tightly he was squeezing her hand. Yet, as terrified as he was, he couldn't peel his eyes away from peeling white paint in front of him. Now there was absolutely no turning back.

"_Wer ist da?_" a low voice rumbled from the opposite side. It wasn't fair to describe the tone as a 'rumble' so much as a 'glide'; twenty-ish years later and Sasha could still recognize the unmistakable voice of his father. It was more like a double bass than a...what, an avalanche?

"Sasha_. Dein Sohn._"

A moment's hesitation followed the response, but soon enough, the lock slid in its tumblers and the door slowly creaked open. Standing a few inches above Sasha was a bespectacled pair of eyes, which were distant and perhaps a bit sleepy. The crack soon opened up wider, and standing right there, possibly a bit bewildered and stunned while still somehow absolutely unreadable, was the man himself, the actual Herr Nein - _Herr Nein der Schuster._

"Sasha..."

He swallowed, his mouth dry, the lump choking in his throat. On a quivering breath, he managed to eek out, "_Vati_."

His father's chest swelled on a long drag of air while he pulled open the door to its full width, stepping back so as to clear a path. "_Herein Sie fangen werde kalt draußen_."

A cold. The first phrase his father had spoken to him since he was a boy was to express his concern about them catching _a cold_ from standing outside. The words punched him straight through the chest, so much so that he sucked in a sharp breath of air between his teeth while a surge of warmth shot straight to his face. There was a sting in his eyes, and for once, he could actually feel the wet drops of tears that wanted to fall.

Milla's voice sprouted up in his mentalscape, picking up scraps of his translated thoughts. _'He still loves you.'_

Of course...of course he did.

_'What do I do?'_ he asked her as they stepped into the back room of the building – the kitchen, as memory still proved correct in recalling.

_'Whatever you feel you need to do.'_

Sasha shot his gaze back at her, his eyes wide and daring her to repeat the unhelpful words. She smiled at him instead, unwinding her fingers from his grip and twirling on her heel to face his father.

"Herr Nein?" she asked in a hybrid of polite question and greeting. With hands behind her back and feet crossed, she appeared somewhat more demure and charming – a trick she pulled whenever the two found themselves in pressing situations that involved a lot of quick thinking and talking.

"Frau Vodello, yes? It is nice to meet you."

Milla was visibly delighted. Sasha jerked his head towards his dad.

"_Du sprichst Englisch?!_"

The man glanced at his son, expression blank, what with the glasses and impressive mustache covering most of the obvious indicators. "_Ja. Genug._ It is needed these days." He might've smiled, since the next words were, "_Du hast einen Akzent nun, weißt du das?_"

All that build-up, and all those years of avoidance, just to be teased by his father for developing an accent to his native language. Sasha scowled, suddenly feeling like a child again, except on the front of being immature rather than his actual youth.

"I'm aware," he deadpanned. Milla giggled.

"Quite a difference, darling," she said, comparing how the two men spoke. Sasha directed his scowl at her, while his father's eyebrows raised.

"Darling..." he repeated, before eying his son. "_Deine Freundin ist ganz hübsch._"

If Sasha had lived a normal life – done normal things, been a normal person, meaning a different person – then he wouldn't be having the reactions he was having right then. As it stood, he had missed out on quite a lot, and nowhere was he feeling like he 'should've gone through this' more than when in a relationship. So even though his father's comment was innocent and true enough, that Milla was 'very pretty', the blood still rose to his face out of sheer embarrassment.

"_Ja_," was all he chose to reply with.

"Coffee?" his father asked, while gesturing towards the long kitchen table propped against the wall. A bench ran along one side, chairs on the other, with most of its surface covered in stacks of papers and what appeared to be magazines.

"That is so kind of you," Milla said first, unraveling her limbs and following his gesture to take a seat at the table. "Yes, please; thank you."

"Sasha?"

"_Bitte_," he answered, still in a slight daze. This was not playing out at all like he had expected, and it was throwing his entire consciousness out of line. He stood and stared at his father, who set about meticulously measuring out coffee grounds into the basket of a percolator.

"_Filtrierapparat?_" Sasha asked slowly, his wince transferring to his tone.

"_Nur warten. Und _ – speak English for Frau Vodello. You are being impolite."

"Oh, I'm fine," Milla hurried out, looking up from one of the magazines she had in her hand. Sasha frowned.

"Are you sure?"

"I know enough. Do not worry."

Sighing, Sasha gave up on the debate, ungluing his feet from the floor and joining his partner at the table. He was just about ready to settle into the resigned thoughts circulating around in his mind – _'this is deviating completely from the script'_ – when he caught sight of the magazines on the table.

They weren't magazines.

_'Echte Psychische Märchen'_ stared back at him from a few of the covers, 'True Psychic Tales' from others. There were dozens of collected anthologies, hundreds of the individual comics – some in pristine condition, others that had seen better days – and more than a handful contained his (and Milla's) likeness somewhere on the cover. Sasha stared at them for a moment before hastily rummaging through the stacks, not even sure what he was looking for. How long had – where did he – when did they -

"Do you read those?" Herr Nein asked as he set the percolator on the stove and turned on its corresponding burner. "Frau Wirth showed one to me. Her daughter enjoys them." He kept his back turned to the two at the table, pulling out a drawer and withdrawing an egg timer. "She said to me, 'this character is named Sasha Nein and looks like your son, have you heard of the series?'. And I said no, but went to the bookstore to see if they had any."

Various labels covered the issues, some with a store-specific sticker, others without, but as a whole they had been collected from a variety of places. Most of the German-language ones appeared to be from the local bookstore, while those in English came from all over. A few had sticky notes jutting out from between their pages, for whatever reason.

"I started to collect the ones they released here. I heard there were more in America, so I began to import them. They were helpful for learning English."

Sasha looked up, not even sure how to be handling the current situation. Even Milla was rendered starkly quiet, instead having taken to pulling out the issues with the sticky notes to figure out their pattern. And anyway, this wasn't her conversation to try and unravel. "_Vati_...did you learn English just to read these?"

Herr Nein cocked his head over his shoulder. "It is easy to be motivated to learn when there is something you like to help you."

He was probably lying, but there was still the larger, unanswered question still lingering in the air. At this point, there was really no reason in answering it except for formality's sake. In the meantime, everything was just song and dance; a distraction for the inevitable string of words that would make or break it all.

"Is the title correct?"

Sasha blinked. That wasn't really the way he had thought this would go. "Eh?"

"Are they 'true'?"

...He should've known. Sasha inherited more from his father than the hair and facial structure; he also appeared to have been given some of the man's ticks and habits. This right here was the 'roundabout question' method, and again, it was one of the games that he was quite adept at playing. But up against his dad, there was really no point to it.

"They have small doses of truth."

"Well," his father began, turning around and fixing his masked gaze on him, "this is what I have found to be true: My son is Sasha Nein, and there is a character just like him in the comic. My son told me he works a secret job for the government and this character does as well. My son cannot say what he does and neither can this character. My son said he had a work partner named Milla Vodello, and she is also the partner of this character." He sighed, his brow lowering. "This character is a psychic...and foolish as it may be, I can only assume my son is as well."

The inevitable silence that filled the room only did more to convict the two. And it wasn't like Sasha had planned on hiding the truth – he was going to let it out eventually. But he had planned on it being on his own terms, when _he_ was ready; clearly not in the early morning when he hadn't slept much in the past 36 hours.

'_...Sasha...'_ Milla glanced up at him, an assortment of sticky noted comics spread under her hands. He exhaled, breaking the gaze he had been holding with his father, and looked over at her, confused and slightly concerned. She raised her eyebrows and twitched her head in the direction of the man whose question they were delaying. _'It's fine.'_

_'It – why do you say that?'_

_'Well, for one, he is your father, and he is making us coffee. I don't think he would be hospitable if he was going to throw us out. And two – you're giving him too little credit. He is a much smarter man than you think. You two are quite similar, dear.'_

He frowned. _'Some aspects, yes, but – what does that have to do with all of this?'_

"You don't read these, do you?" Milla asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Sasha panicked internally, though kept outwardly composed, as he was apt to do.

_'Why are you -'_

"Talk out loud Sasha, you're being rude."

_'He doesn't need to hear this, Milla.'_

"He has every right to hear this."

_'This is ridiculous!'_

"_You're_ the one being ridiculous, darling, and now you're making _me_ look silly because I'm talking to nothing."

Sasha dragged in a sharp, rather painful burst of air through his nose, his nostrils flaring. He glowered at his partner before mumbling a resigned, "No, I don't read those comics."

Milla's eyes remained narrow for a moment longer before she gave a slight smile, returning her attention to the table. "I do – they're quite wonderful sometimes, and in the very least, it gives me something to talk to the children about. And darling, if you did read them, you would learn what to say and not to say in your letters."

He furrowed his brow. There were a few questions to ask, but first and foremost: "How do you know what my letters say?"

She tapped her head. Of course she would use her privilege of sneaking around his mind to dig out secrets. Of course. Following that, she flicked her hand at a few of the comics, flipping them open with a short-term for of levitation. Sasha panicked for a moment, shooting his glance at his father, who also seemed visibly on-edge...but more from surprise rather than fear. Milla snapped her fingers to bring his attention back to her, and pointed down at the pages.

Sasha leaned over the table, squinting to read the notes clearly. On one – a copied line from a letter, mentioning the time he broke his collarbone in Chattanooga. And sure enough, on the page – Agent Nein reporting his broken collarbone suffered in Nashville. An additional scribble on the note indicated both cities being located in the state of Tennessee.

Another – the story that introduced Raz, the tale of the stolen brains at Whispering Rock. The connection was simple enough: both Sasha and the drawn Agent Nein were camp counselors in the summer. There was also a connection noted to the "protégé" mentioned in his letter and the spunky young psychic that was due to star in his own line of comics.

And a third, of the time in Budapest. This page had two sticky notes, one noticeably newer than the other. Sasha lifted up the second to read the first, which made note of Agent Vodello who had been clearly indicated in Sasha's letters as _just his work partner_, although his father's handwriting had a question mark after the statement. When he dropped the note to read the newer one, he felt his face turn red again. '_Seine Freundin' _it read back to him.

At least a dozen more were open for him to read, and there were still others left untouched. Sasha looked up at Milla, who casually shrugged, before he returned his gaze to his father, who had turned back around to the stove and was turning off the burner with the percolator.

"You've...been busy," were the least competent words Sasha could think to say, and of course they were the ones that left his mouth. He winced at himself, which led to Milla snickering.

"I saw one. Then another. And then more." The egg timer rang out mid-sentence, which Herr Nein ignored and instead rummaged through an overhead cabinet. He pulled out two mis-matched mugs, whose handles fit rather neatly over his index finger. "I thought, 'is this true? is this really my son?'. I did not know. It seemed too strange at first, but the more I read, the more I noticed." He set the mugs on the counter, filling them with coffee from the percolator. "Then one day, my son's letter says he is coming to visit, and come with his _Verlobte_ -"

"_Freundin_," Sasha corrected quickly, leaving Milla bewildered.

"_Ich bin ein alter Mann, ist es schwierig, sich daran zu erinnern._" He chuckled at the end of his sentence, which just about knocked his son to the ground. Apparently the men of the Nein clan developed perceived senses of humor to others when they had neglected contact for prolonged periods of time.

Herr Nein turned around, the two mugs he had just filled in his hands, and made his way to the table. His expression was still rather fixed and somewhat unreadable, although a hint of a smile was poking out from underneath his mustache. "My son wants to visit...he says he has much to tell me...I can only guess what there is to say, but I believe I know." He placed the mugs on the table before turning to his son.

Sasha wasn't a great deal shorter than his father, but he _was_ a whole lot scrawnier. This was true in comparison to most men, but especially to this one. In his youth, he felt intimated by the man, even though the furthest he had scolded was raising his voice at the boy. There was no reason to be afraid. And by admitting that, there were no longer any excuses for him to hide behind.

"_Es tut mir leid, Vati_," he said, his voice quivering. "That...is what I want to say."

His father's eyes shook behind his glasses, and there – right there, just a glimpse, but there nonetheless – was the glint of tears. It was the last thing Sasha saw before his father threw his arms around his son and completely enveloped him in a tight, overbearing hug.

"Why are you sorry?" his voice strummed, hitting the sweet low notes as the man fought to keep his voice pitched. "Do not be sorry. Your mother would be so happy to see who you are." He kept his arms clasped tightly around his son for a moment longer before whispering, _"Aber...bist du psychisch..._?"

Sasha snorted. "_Ja...ich bin...und so ist Frau Vodello..._"

"That was clear," his father mumbled in reply while giving his son a hefty pat on the back. The two then turned to look at Milla, who was sitting on the side of the table with the bench, her chin resting on the backs of her hands, a smile arching into a pleasant mood clearly written to her face. Sasha cleared his throat nervously, which only made her grin.

"Now...sit, please." Herr Nein pushed his son towards his partner, making him stumble on his feet. "There is a lot to talk about."

"Err...is sleeping out of the question...?"

"Nonsense." His father returned to the stove, lifting the percolator in one hand before he made his next stop to the small refrigerator under a counter and taking out a small container of cream. "There is plenty of coffee."

* * *

The term 'mentally exhausted' meant two things to a psychic: one was the state of having been in a mentally taxing situation, such as a day of test-taking or having been in a meeting for several hours. Two was a mix between physical and mental fatigue, brought about by using one's psychic abilities extensively throughout the day. And between telling his father about his life of the past twenty years and giving demonstrations of what exactly it meant to be a 'Psychonaut', Sasha was ready to collapse that night and sleep for days.

Well, he had the 'collapsing' part down: face-first into a pillow (after removing his glasses) on the bed in the room his father had called the guestroom. Sasha could only recall that it had once served as a storage room, and it still appeared to serve that purpose given the boxes stacked along the wall with the window.

A knock on the door caused him to roll onto his side. "_Hereinkommen_," he groaned out, and after a pause, the latch jostled open and Milla slipped in the room. Told to pack for cold weather and a drafty house, she was donning flannel pajama pants and a loose sweatshirt, even having socks on her feet. She laughed upon seeing Sasha.

"Are you tired, darling?" she asked with a giggle, sitting down on her side of the bed and reaching out a hand to stroke his hair. He grunted.

"Understatement," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "I don't know how you can maintain this level of momentum..."

"Practice, sweetie. And personality. You are just a more low-key kind of guy, like your father."

"If you must label it that way..."

Milla smiled, setting her legs up onto the bed and leaning onto her side, shifting hands so as to continue petting him. "Sasha...I just have one more question."

"Mmm?"

"This morning, before having coffee – your father called me your _Verlobte –_ what does that mean?"

Sasha opened one eye. "You can read my mind for the contents of the letters I wrote him, but not for that word?"

She _tsk_ed. "You of all people should know – a word in a language you don't understand won't be translated in the mind of whoever is thinking it. All I could tell...it left a warm feeling in you, darling. But you were embarrassed by it."

He sighed, opening both eyes but hunching his shoulders up. "_Verlobte –_ it means fiancée. My father decided to be funny and call you my fiancée."

"I see." Milla lowered her head to her pillow while deciding to poke his nose. "If it makes you feel any better, my papa has been insisting you've been my _noivo_ for the past three years."

He blinked. "_Noivo_?"

"Take a guess."

"...Three years?" Sasha was suddenly awake, shifting up onto his shoulders. "What have you been telling your family?"

"Nothing you would find incorrect, darling." She smiled before a yawn overtook her, and she covered her mouth with the hand not wedged under her face. "Ugh – excuse me, that was untimely."

The yawn was contagious – although he didn't do one himself, it echoed in his system and caused his eyelids to droop. "Perhaps it's best if we sleep."

"Yes, that is a marvelous idea."

Sasha rolled over onto his other side, hitching up the sheets and quilt that were surprisingly freshly laundered. As he was about to sink off into an overdue sleep, a warm presence pressed itself against his back. She was just mirroring his pose, nothing more than that, but still, it was pleasant and comfortable.

For once, everything seemed to be in its place. If he was lucky there would be more, but in the very least, nothing could make it less. He had earned this, and would gladly (well, perhaps not _too_ happily) suffer all the 'Sasha Nein is a robot' jokes if it meant he could have three things: peace in his own mind, the care of his father, and the companionship of his _Liebe_.

Someday, he would gladly be Milla's _noivo,_ if she would let him call her _Verlobte_. That discussion, however, was for later.

* * *

(The End)


End file.
